The Price of Salt (The Grim Arcana)

by Geoffrey Thorne

  The Price of Salt

  By Geoffrey Thorne

  Somebody with a death wish was leaning on my buzzer.

  Now, I'm a reasonable sort, fair minded, some might even say staunch, but that sort of wake-up call– screaming angry hornets- at that hour– like three in the morning– that kind of behavior will get anybody's back up.

  Couple that with the fact that Priscilla had been at me again– something about me not respecting her life choices or some other kind of crap– so I'd only actually made it into my bed at like midnight anyway. When she gets a mad going it takes a while for her to blow herself out. Three hours of sleep after a taste of Hurricane Pris and I probably would've dropped my own mother for looking at me crossways.

  "Better be good," I said into the intercom once I managed to make it there. "I mean really good."

  It took me a few seconds to remember that I had to depress the button marked LISTEN before I could, so I missed the first part of what he had to say.

  “– us in, man,” said a voice I found a little familiar. “We're in deep shit.”

  Switching to the SPEAK button I said, "Who’s this?"

  “Bobby, man,” said the static crackled voice. “Come on. Let us in.”

  A picture of a skinny twitchy white guy who looked like he'd been constructed from a bunch of hastily assembled birch saplings popped into my head. Bobby Locane. The Bug. Yeah, I knew him. I knew him well enough to know that, if he was in deep shit, he probably deserved it.

  "Who's us?" I said.

  “Me and Queen,” said Bobby through the static.

  Oh, great. Queen Babs and freaking Bobby the Bug Locane. Just what I freaking need at three fucking o'clock in the morning.

  Why do these idiots always come to me when they get in over their heads? It's not like I can do anything to make them smarter or faster or capable of telling the truth. And why in the hell do I always let them in?

  "Yeah, all right," I said into the speaker. "Two minutes."

  Bobby the Bug was just like I remembered him– short, skinny and running a twitch that would make an epileptic look like a statue. His girl, a piece of Goth jailbait named Barbara something who made everybody call her Queen, towered over him the way a big lump of vanilla ice cream towers over a dish. They both looked and smelled like they'd been spit out the wrong end of a sewer pipe.

  "Jesus," I said, taking a step back. “Bathe much?”

  It was useless. Their stench was like a live animal, clawing at me, trying to pull me in with them.

  "Sorry," said Bobby the Bug.

  Damn it. Their crap covering was dripping on my throw, leaving a mark that I knew would never ever come out.

  "Let's have it," I said retreating to the kitchen for some water. I wasn't wasting any more time on these idiots than I absolutely had to.

  Bobby started talking right away. Well. His version of talking. What it really was was a stream of unbroken syllables that sounded a little like words if you had the time and patience to wade in and decipher. I had neither.

  "Shut up," I said to Bobby. He did. Then I turned to Queen Babs. She was quaking too; enough to make her look like a blurry TV picture. "You. Talk. And make it quick."

  "We need to see Grim," she said. "Bobby says you know him."

  "Bobby talks too freaking much," I said, shooting him a look that told him I'd be discussing his fat mouth with him later.

  "We got this thing," she said. "This box. We opened it and Vinnie–"

  "Vinnie?" I said, cutting her off. I thought I knew who she meant but I wanted to be sure.

  "Vinnie D," she said.

  Vinnie D– D for Dietz– Big Vinnie to his friends of whom he had none. That's who was missing from this picture. Vinnie was one of those wannabe Wiseguys who was always looking for and never finding the angles. He was also a total half-wit but, compared to these two, he was like Hawking and Chaucer in one chubby rat-like body.

  "What happened to Vinnie," I said.

  The two morons exchanged a glance and something definitely passed between them. If they'd had brains I would have thought to ask about it but, of course, they didn't. Eventually Queen Babs went on.

  "He had this box," she said. "Said he got it off some homeless guy. Said it had money inside."

  "Money?" I said. "Off some random homeless guy?"

  "Or jewels," she said, faltering a little. "Or like old coins or something."

  "And you believed him?"

  She blinked at me as if I’d asked her to work out some really complex math problem and then, "Vinnie said so," she said. "And we seen the box. It was cool. All old and bronzy with all these shapes carved in."

  "Great," I said, meaning the opposite. "So you guys won the lottery."

  "Yeah," she said. "But it was locked, right."

  Of course it was. The boxes of jewels or money you get off homeless people in the middle of the night are always locked. That’s the fun.

  The three dimwits figured the best way to get it open was to take it somewhere– somewhere quiet– and start smashing. This plan seemed like it would work until something happened.

  "The box cracked," said Queen Babs, cracking a bit herself. "Just a little. And this stuff came out."

  "Stuff?" I said. "What kind of stuff?"

  They looked at each other but they didn't answer. Holding even one idea between them was probably all they could manage. Deciding what to do about it had taxed them to the limit. Something was going on, maybe even something interesting, but if they thought they were going to make me squeeze it out of them...

  "Yeah, okay," I said. "Time to go."

  I took a step towards them and they both flinched. First smart thing I bet they'd done all night.

  "Okay, okay," said Bobby. He was almost standing up straight and looking me nearly in the eyes. I didn't like it. "Black stuff."

  "Black stuff?"

  "Like dust," said Queen Babs. "Or dandruff or something like that."

  “Box of black dandruff,” I said, chewing it in spite of my- or anybody’s- better judgment. The morons bobbled their heads.

  "It got Vinnie," said Bobby.

  "Got him?" I said. "What do you mean it got him?"

  "All over him," said Queen Babs, shooting Bobby a hasty look. "It got all over his hands, like."

  "Soon as it touched him," said Bobby. "He just falls over and then he's thrashing around and there's spit coming out of his mouth."

  "What is he, like allergic or something?" I said. Then I had to explain allergic and allergies.

  "Maybe," they said together.

  "So what do I look like, a doctor?" I said. "Take him to the ER."

  "That won't help," said Bobby. "This is some weird shit, man. Hospital won't cut it."

  "We couldn't touch him anyway," said Queen Babs. "That stuff was all over him."

  "Bummer," I said. "But what makes you losers think I'm going to waste time I could spend sleeping to keep Vinnie D from taking the dirt nap?"

  "Not you," said Queen Babs. "Grim."

  This chick wasn't just stupid, she was out of her overly mascara'd mind. The way she said Grim like that. Like it was a prayer or a get-out-of-jail-free card. Where do these people come from?

  "Grim thinks less of Big Vinnie than I do, Queenie," I said, trying not to laugh. "You're gonna have to do a hell of a lot better to get me to take you to him and a helluva lot more than that to get him interested."

  She looked like she'd melt into a puddle of goo right there. Bobby too. They were nitwits, self obsessed, stupid enough to get into all manner of crap situations just for the promise of a little X or Blow. Yet, somehow, whatever had happened to Vinnie had spooked them enough for them to cu
t through all the Special K cobwebs and ask for help. Not that I cared.

  This town is full of seat fillers like Queen Babs and Bobby the Bug. A few less really wouldn't hurt. Might even help.

  I was telling them just this and risking my health by physically pushing them towards the door when Bobby said, "You can't do this, man. You gotta take us to see him."

  "What I gotta do is get sand blasted after touching you pigs," I said. "Now get–"

  "No," said Bobby. I have to give him credit. For a human pile of sticks he managed to screw up enough guts to plant himself for a second and look at me straight. "You have to. It's the rules."

  "What rules?" I said, dreading the answer.

  ***

  Here's the deal. This town is full of all kinds of weird shit. I mean stuff happens here that nobody would believe even if they looked it right in its fire breathing mouth. I've personally seen things that just the memory of which will even now wake me up out of a dead sleep, shivering and grateful that I'm still alive and my soul is still in my body.

  A living sculpture made of headless cats. Something like a girl and a mantis that ate children and flowers. Even a door that opened onto an emptiness so vast it made me want to lie down and sleep forever. That's just the stuff I've seen myself. Grim? He's deep into this magic crap.

  Yeah. That's right. I said Magic.

  There's magic here and there's people that use it. Things too. It's the things you generally have to worry about. Problem is sometimes the things look like people. They look like them and smell like them and they suck your brain out of your head while you're trying to get their phone number. They're all over the place. And under it and sometimes over it too.

  That's the Downshot.

  The Up is my friend Grim. If the trouble is interesting enough he'll jump in and, you know, help sort things out for folks who can't for themselves.

  Thing is Grim's not easy to find and, even if you do, there's the convincing. He's really old see, though you couldn't tell by looking at him. He's one of those seen-it-all, done-it-all types. So just telling him some sewer monster slurped your poodle down for an afternoon snack ain't gonna get his juices flowing. Throw in a toddler though and Grim perks right up. He's a sucker for the kiddies.

  So the rules are, if someone is really in need, really in deep, guys like Grim have to step in. Do What They Can.

  Who makes the rules? I got no clue. I don't even know how many guys like Grim there are or if there are any more. Grim's the only one I ever met and part of me, a really big part, wants to keep it that way.

  This thing with Mr. and Mrs. Moron did something to my hackles that made me think Grim might actually want a piece. But, like I said, finding him is sometimes a chore.

  ***

  "Seen Grim?" I said to the guy behind the hot dog counter. Smiley was his name- stocky Latino guy with a scar that sort of made his mouth a little wider on one side. Used to be a gangbanger in the old days, did some time in Chino. He's out of La Vida Loca now but he still has ties. So, if you know how to ask, he can tell a lot.

  "Nah," said Smiley. "He ain't been in town for like a week, esse."

  "Family business?" I said. That's the only thing that makes Grim pull up stakes. Personally I never met any of his people and, from the way he talks about them, I don't want to. Grim's kind of frosty but, his people, they sound like the freaking Ice Age.

  Smiley didn't know what took Grim away and that was bad news because, without him, the Morons were hosed.

  "Got a number on him?" I said.

  Smiley tore off a page of greasy receipt paper and scribbled some digits.

  "This don't work, I can't help you," he said.

  ***

  The number was a bust– just bumped me over to one of those pager/voicemail things.

  “It's me,” said Grim's voice. “I'm busy. Leave the message. I'll get to it when I can.”

  What the hell. I gave him the short version of the story the idiots told me and added the thing about my hackles. Told him to call my cell if and when he got the message. Then I hung up and went back to The Queen and The Bug.

  "Grim's in the wind, kids," I said. "Looks like you'll have to settle for me."

  The kids didn't look happy.

  ***

  I'm not Grim but I can handle myself. Mostly I do that with the help of the aluminum Louisville Slugger I keep in the trunk of my car or with the .9mm semi auto pistol I got from another buddy of mine. The gun’s clean, unregistered and, as far as I know, has never been used on another human being. I'm not a crack shot or anything but I hit what I aim at often enough for me to feel a lot safer carrying the thing than not.

  The Moron Twins didn't know the address of the place where they'd left Big Vinnie writhing on the floor but they were pretty sure they could guide me there.

  "The Border," said Bobby as I slid into the driver's side of my little Ford Falcon. He’d set himself up in what my dad used to call the navigator’s seat while Queen Babs was staining the cushions in the back.

  Great, I thought. This just gets better and better.

  The neighborhood used to be called Bordertown but now everybody just called it The Border. Nobody could say what boundary the place was supposed to mark but the name had stuck so long it wasn't going anywhere now without a lot of work.

  In the old days- I mean the recent old days, not the old Old Days- the Border was one of those upscale neighborhoods you see in movies about the Jazz Age. Silent film stars lived there along with gangsters, politicians and some of the best Bebop players in the history of the art. They all got shoved aside by waves and waves of immigrants coming over from Wherever to make a go of the American Dream.

  First it was Poles then Irish then Jews then Indians and then, I think, the Irish took another shot. After all that coming and going The Border turned into a sort of Almost Place, not really able to decide what it was from day to day or even sometimes from hour to hour.

  Lately the place was basically split into thirds. One third was your starving artist types, clustering in the old brownstones for cheap rent and street mystique. One third were the immigrant holdovers from the most recent wave: Hasidim, Czechs and even the odd family of Nepalese. One third were those slithery unaccounted for bastards who weren’t quite criminals but who you wouldn’t want to turn your back to on a bet.

  When things went bad in the Border they went really really bad. Things went bad in the Border like twelve times out of ten. Mr. Murphy might as well have designed the place himself to guarantee unpleasant outcomes. That didn’t bode well for Big Vinnie.

  “This is it,” said The Bug, pointing me onto a side street near Eris and Hoyle.

  It turned out to be a rundown brownstone at the dead end of Eris Place. The structure was sturdy enough at first glance and amazingly free of gang tags but it didn’t take a microscope to see that this place was a squat at best, probably a shooting gallery, definitely not a home.

  All the window glass had been replaced by nailed-in two-by-fours or the torn off sides of refrigerator boxes.

  The front door looked solid from the street but, when you got closer, it was easy to see that the hinges were gone and the door itself was only propped up against the front opening. Wild gutter cats came and went at will, chasing after the underfed rats that did the same.

  We crept towards it and, as it loomed over us, I got and couldn’t shake the feeling that the place was hungry or that it was somehow waiting for something. I hoped that something wasn’t me.

  I was already fingering the gun in my pocket when we got to the base of the front steps.

  “What the hell were you doing here?” I said to The Morons.

  It was a question I had been asking myself ever since I decided to step in for Grim. This wasn’t my gig. I’m strictly backup. There was something about the way the two idiots looked, maybe– like puppies with their heads caught between the bars of a metal railing. I just figured somebody ought to help them no matter how stupid they were. Wit
hout Grim around, that night, Somebody was me.

  They goggled at me for a bit and then the Queen said, “It was Vinnie.”

  I guessed she meant it was Vinnie’s idea to take the box into this foul abortion of a place to get a private look at their stolen goods. I got an image of him then, sweating in his retro shark skin suit, shaking and writhing under a sheen of fine black powder.

  Damn you, Vinnie, I thought. If I do get you clear of this you’re in for a serious ass whipping.

  “Ok,” I said finally. “Let’s do this.”

  The longer we stayed there at the bottom, looking up at the brownstone, the less likely I was going to make the climb. It’s not like I hadn’t done this kind of thing before. I had. By ourselves me and Grim had put down the Shriekers in Little Hanoi. We shoved a freaking stake through the heart of that human leech thing by the docks. The real story on what started the Hollycrest fire on Devil’s Night and how we got out of it would turn your hair white. I wasn’t a virgin, is the point. I’d been around.

  Thing was, though, all those times before it was me and Grim doing the deed. Mostly Grim. Now I was on my own.

  I wasn’t scared, okay, but I wasn’t stupid either. Sometimes these things go bad wicked fast and, if you can’t get off the first shot, you’re cooked.

  I started up the stairs, my hand now firmly wrapped around the grip of the gun in my pocket. The Bug moved with me, falling into my step like one of those zombies you see in old horror flicks. The front stairs were only seven or eight steps high but for some reason climbing them was like slogging up a muddy hill. When we got to top the leadfoot feeling went away but was replaced by what felt like a cold breeze whispering across my skin.

  I was looking at The Bug, thinking how useless he was going to be shifting the massive oak door to one side and wondering how he’d done it in the first place, when I noticed Queen Babs wasn’t with us.

  “Hey,” I called down to her. “What’s with you?”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t go back in there.”

  I told her all three of us were going in or she and The Bug could chalk up the loss of Big Vinnie to the chickens finally coming home to roost.