Do the Weird Crime, Serve the Weird Time

by Don Webb

  “I was a truck driver in college.”

  Steve kept talking about all the things that wannabe writers talk about. The potential for a series, TV, movies, foreign rights, gaming rights, book tours, hot babes that would not mind John’s fleshy middle. Talk and pour and talk and pour,

  “Let me Irish that up for you.” Steve poured a little Baileys in the John’s cup.

  “Aren’t you having any?” asked Juan.

  “I’m the designated mailer. As soon as we are ready I will take these down to the post office. Ain’t it cool?”

  “My heart is beating like a kettle drum. I am so excited.” Sweat hung in big drops on Juan’s light brown forehead. He smelled funny—a sort of metallic smell. Steve assumed that it wasn’t exactly the sweet smell of success.

  “It’s that eminent fame plus the caffeine, of course,” said Steve, “You know you should really take care better care of yourself.”

  Juan looked guilty, “I’ve got a confession, dude. I am really diabetic. Type II. I don’t tell anyone at work, because I really like scarfing down desserts at the monthly office birthday parties.”

  Big fucking surprise: El Gordo is a diabetic.

  “No shit,” said Steve, “I had wondered. I mean last month I must have seen you devour three slices of red velvet cake. Well maybe if you keep yourself healthy for your adoring fans.”

  “I haven’t taken care of myself since my wife left me. I drink too much, eat too many fast sugars. When I started this writing thing, I thought that maybe life wouldn’t be day after day at TDS and nights when I hoped I would just die in my sleep.”

  Steve said, “Writing brought the best out in me. No question. Say man you are looking a little like a slice of red velvet cake right now. Why don’t you go on home? I can handle everything here.”

  “I am a little queasy. Is it hot in here?” Juan seemed disoriented

  “It is really hot,” lied Steve. “Come on let’s get you home. Enough excitement today for my flan.”

  Juan made his ponderous way to the escalator.

  “No. Come on take the stairs. You need to start taking care of yourself, baby steps you know.”

  “You are the only friend I’ve got.”

  “I know. Joan used to feel the same way.”

  Steve began leading the bug man to the stairwell. With the slightest shiver of distaste, he put his hand on the sweat soaked back of Juan’s pink shirt. Big, wet brown. As Juan began to step on to the straits, Steve sharply increased the pressure of his arm on John’s back. Suddenly Juan ripped. He tried to break his fall, but only broke his arm. The body slumped-and-slid down to the turn in the stairs. Steve slowly stepped down to his fallen companion. Juan’s heart had not withstood the strain. Poor Juan, he should have started that aerobics program he was always talking about. All those enchiladas and tres leche cake hadn’t helped either. Lesson to us all. Steve gathered up Juan’s envelopes and the MSS. He washed his coffee cup and put it on the rack—careful to leave the coffeepot turned on. Almost nothing was left in the bottom of the pot. He threw away the now almost empty Folgers’s can that had the poison in it.

  He was Juan’s loudest mourner. Everyone had known how close they were. Someone asked about Juan’s book. Steve said that he thought Juan had sent it out. Juan had always been secretive about his writing. No, Steve had never seen the book. The family up from San Antonio had never heard of it. The boss saw how upset Steve was, and sent him home for a week to get over his loss. Steve used this time to print out new copies of John’s work and stuff them into the envelopes that Juan had so thoughtfully provided. He changed the byline and the title and cleaned up Juan’s grammar. Juan had chosen a good set of markets, but then Juan had an excellent understanding of his own work. Steve felt that Borges at the Mike could be a bestseller. It was funny and gritty and had a little magical realism as a seasoning. Nice salsa for a white boy. American sabor.

  Bluebonnets azured the highways, and Steve’s agent Mary Denning finalized a deal with Bantam for Allegro. Borges at the Mike was receiving a few enquires as well. Steve spent some of his generous advance on a three-strand pearl necklace for Sally. He showed it around the office and everyone said that he should quit and work full time. Nobody talked about Juan anymore. The consensus was that he’d never had a book in the first place. The strain probably killed him. Even Steve let himself be convinced.

  Steve took Sally to Joaquin’s, the only restaurant in town with a three star rating. She was so proud. She was going to try her hand at this. She already had an idea for a fantasy novel.

  As he put the pearls around her neck, Steve wondered how good it would be.

  RING OF THE RED KNIGHT

  I hadn’t liked the old man. Winslow Carvenell was a nuisance. Always measuring the border between our garden plots with a ruler—as though fearful a single tomato of mine might have cast a shadow over his roses. He was the most disagreeable sort of neighbor, and except for our mutual interest in the magical arts there was little in common between us. Neither of us were great enchanters, neither had great wealth. I had made my own through hard work and study, but an accident of birth had made my neighbor poorer than his kin.

  But I was grieved when I heard he died and fearful when I heard it was murder. After all, he lived next door.

  Shina, his maid, had found him with a cut from ear to ear. Someone had murdered him in his sleep. The maid, being resourceful, had called upon the constable before alarming the neighborhood. I heard of old Winslow’s death from him, but I knew I would hear all the gory details from her—for Shina had once been a love of mine.

  Constable Gager arrived just as I was heading off for the Academy where I taught classes in thaumaturgy, beginning philosophy of magic, and magical epistemology. The constable had been a student of mine, years ago. I had failed him because he was too lazy to apply himself. He had improved with the passing of years, but his hatred for me had certainly not diminished. Such is often a teacher’s fate. He was suspicious of the fact that I had heard nothing, and advised me grimly not to leave town.

  I was late for class, and some of my students had walked. So I conjured a small pink cloud in my likeness and sent it off to the tavern where they were sure to have gathered. It rounded them up in a few minutes, and I gave a fairly good lecture on beginning invisibility.

  Shina was waiting for me when I got home. I had given her the word which unlocked my door when we were an “item” years before.

  “It was awful, Robert,” she said. “He was slumped over his writing desk his throat slit from ear to ear. His journal is ruined, who knows how many years of research on his family is gone.”

  “Who do you think killed him?”

  “Winslow didn’t have an enemy in the world. Oh you and he argued over trifles, and Dieter Betz over at Miracle University argued over how to decipher certain ancient texts, and he’s never been too sweet on his nephew, which is sad since the Count will be paying for his funeral.”

  “William pays for everything after all. Did Winslow have anything to bequeath?”

  “His books and scrolls will go to the University. William came by and said he’d pay my salary for another month and that I could have any personal effects I wanted.”

  “I’m really sorry, Shina, if there’s anything I can do—” That is probably the oldest incantation in mankind’s repertory—its magic had been used up centuries before Atlantis sank beneath the waves. But she put her head on my shoulder and cried softly for a very long time. I saw quite a few silver hairs in her blond hair and wondered how I had become an old scholar. Where was the young wizard I once was? How long had I played the part of aging scholar-mage?

  * * * * * * *

  The next day Count William paid me a visit. William was Winslow’s nephew. William was the son of Rudolfo, the older of twin brothers. Rudolfo got the title and lands by arriving four minutes before his brother. Winslow got a scholar’s salary and a small house from the university—one of the Count’s favorite char
ities. William was a good Count, I suppose, he gave great feasts and his costume parties in Carnival season were well known. He dropped by my humble home to borrow texts, commission poetry or merely to give brandies and wines. But I never stood in his presence without knowing to my very bones that I was in front of the man who owned me. It is said the mark of a good ruler is that their presence makes you want to serve, but that a poor ruler merely makes you know that you serve.

  Count William asked if I would deliver Winslow’s eulogy. I accepted. He also told me that Constable Gager had a lead on the case. Someone had seen the murderer leaving Winslow’s home.

  It would be a grand funeral, promised Count William, he would spare no expense.

  I began to work on Winslow’s eulogy. As is always the case when someone dies, I wished that I had paid more attention to him in the living years. His scholarship had been great. I really wished that he had finished his history of his own family.

  I was pondering this loss to learning when Shina came running into my yard. I let her in.

  “Robert. It wasn’t you, was it? Tell me you didn’t kill him.”

  “Of course I didn’t kill him. Why would you think something that crazy?”

  She reached out her right hand to me, opening it from the fist it had been. In her palm was the ring of the red knight.

  “Have you told anyone?” I asked.

  “No. Not yet. If you didn’t do it, someone wants it to look like you did. I found it under the table; I was cleaning up the house. I didn’t know if I should take it to you or to Gager.”

  I reached for the ring, but she made the fist again.

  “You’ve got to give it to me—so I can figure out what’s going on.”

  “What if you did drop it?”

  “Shina, you know me.”

  “I know. I don’t know. What are the rules for murder and friendship? I don’t know. I should take it to Gager.”

  “If you do, you’ll be putting a noose around my neck. Leave it with me for a night, I may be able to get the ring to talk.”

  “You’re not that powerful a wizard, Robert, you know that.”

  “Sometimes a person can be pretty powerful if his life is in danger.”

  She started to release the ring.

  “You must promise me,” she said, “that you’ll give me the ring tomorrow. I can say I just found it. I don’t want to be jailed for having interfered with a criminal case.”

  “I promise.”

  She handed me the ring, a simple circle of red gold with the word “judge” written in the High Speech. She made me promise several more times. She was scared, but I was terrified.

  The red knight, Sir Starkad, had been a harsh man. My father, the swineherd, used to say that the best words that could be spoken of a man were “He was tough, but fair.” Starkad would not have needed “fair”—his justice was harsh.

  * * * * * * *

  Let me tell you about the ring. Last year at Carnival, Count William invited all of us poor teachers to a great costume ball and feast. Now, as you know, a scholar will not pass up a free meal for any reason. I dressed up as Sir Starkad, the founder of the Count’s family. I had a replica of the ring made as a magical focus so that I could conjure up the rest of the costume. I had even won a small prize for best costume (historical).

  Winslow, the only person to attend the party without costume, had nothing but bad things to say about my choice. Who was I, a commoner, to wear (even in sport) the arms of a noble family? Count William announced a special prize for his uncle: Best Curmudgeon.

  A few months after Carnival, I was looking for the ring. I wanted to melt it down for the gold so I could buy a particularly wonderful set of scrolls from Mordrake. I couldn’t find the ring, and chalked up the loss to my messy bachelor life. I hadn’t thought to tell anyone of my loss. Not that it would matter. The ring at the site of Winslow’s murder could convince any jury. He had complained widely of my presumption in wearing it.

  In one of my books of magic was a spell to open the mouth of objects. It would cause a thing to reveal its history. A very advanced spell, this—but if I could discover the killer, I might be able to slip the noose. I hated the killer whoever she or he was. He (or she) had stolen my best enemy and wanted to frame me.

  The spell was a simple one. It involved a red oil lamp with a wick upon which had been written certain characters and a few barbarous names. I performed it an hour after sunset. Nothing happened. I put a new wick in the lamp and tried again, pouring all of my magical strength into the operation. Nothing happened.

  I felt weak and sad. I blew out the lamp, leaving the ring on my writing desk. I walked heavily over to my cot and threw myself down to sleep. I dozed off quickly. Then I heard or thought I heard the chair at my writing desk being pushed back. I couldn’t see in the darkness of my house, but I felt like someone was sitting at my table. I thought I heard someone writing.

  “Shina?”

  Nothing.

  “Winslow?”

  Still nothing.

  I sprang up and ran over to the desk. No one seemed to be there. I lit a candle. No one there. But didn’t I leave the ring near the center of the table?

  I decided I was having a really bad case of nerves. I left the candle lit and returned to bed. Amazingly I fell asleep again, as if something in the room drove away consciousness.

  I dreamed a little dream. I dreamt first of rings. Rich noble rings sparkling with gems of this and other worlds. Poor couples’ wedding bands. Slaves rings from the southern deserts. Each of them rolling endlessly through the night. Each of them a symbol of something the wearer was bound to. Each rolling like the cycles of our lives from birth to death to be given to another in another life. Rolling along, controlling the paths of the life of the person wearing them. I was somewhere far above them watching them as bodiless observer, but I began to sink toward them, and the sound of their rolling grew into a great roar. I feared I would land among them and be worn to bits by their endless rolling. By this time I was thinking that the rings and all they implied ruled mankind. Who was the first to pledge his troth over a band of metal? Once that pledge was made, we lived in a world of meanings, a world where things could be done with words like “I do” or “I swear.” I was falling into the great river of rings which had rolled since my ancestors’ ancestors had decided to live by Law. How could I withstand that force? I had avoided the force by becoming a scholar, a semi-recluse, but now that world of men—with its endless rings—would have me.

  I fell but as is the way of dreams, merely woke. I was awake for an instant thinking that I saw something sparkle upon my desk and then I returned to sleep.

  I must have slept a great while for I know that my second dream was near dawn.

  I dreamt I was at a masked ball in Count William’s home. I was dressed as the red knight, but there was another red knight. I approached this man angry at having my costume aped. The other red knight lurked in the shadows. When I came upon him I saw that his armor was not the festive stuff of Carnival fantasy. Battle had left its mark.

  He raised his visor and I saw in inexpressible sadness in his gray eyes. I wanted to say something to offer some assurance to this man who suddenly seemed like a brother to me. I thought he has chosen the world of rings, not a do-nothing scholar like me. He lowered his visor and made his way through the crowd toward the throne. Some grave matter of state was unfolding.

  I thought to follow him, but the masked crowd seemed suddenly thicker and noisier. I doubted that I could pass through them.

  I looked for a pathway close to the walls. It was then I saw old Winslow sitting at his writing desk penning a manuscript. I’ll tell him that I’m sorry he’s dead, I thought, for such thoughts are in the way of dreams.

  I made my way to him.

  He was writing in his usual beautiful hand:

  A History of the Carvenells

  The first of the line prepares the last of the line’s doom.

  * * * * *
* *

  I woke suddenly because something cold touched my cheek. Rolled over my cheek. The candle had gone out. I sprang out of bed looking for what had touched me. I threw my bedding aside on the floor feeling for something small. I found nothing. Then I went and got a candle, my fingers shaking as I put flint to steel. By its light I saw nothing, but the ring was gone from the desk.

  I began lighting candles. I would flood my small house with light. I must find the ring before tomorrow. I had no doubt that Shina, already unsure in her resolve to let me have the ring, would tell Constable Gager of her find.

  I went through every nook and cranny. I unrolled my scrolls, threw down my books, forced my fingers into every chink in the walls. I looked under my washbasin, in my glasses, among my silverware. It was nowhere. The ring had rolled away, and with it no doubt any chance of my avoiding the noose.

  I resolved right away to pack and leave the country. I could perhaps manage a spell to fly away—of course I would have to leave most of my treasures here. My precious books and scrolls! The wealth of a lifetime of learning.

  I was packing a satchel when the knocking began. I had never heard so loud a series of knocks in my life.

  “Open up, Robert Griffith. I have come to arrest you for the murder of Winslow Carvenell. If you don’t open this door, I shall break it down.”

  I uttered the word, which opened the door.

  “Caught you before you could leave!” boomed Constable Gager.

  With him were Count William, a tear-stained Shina, and a burly peasant man I’d seen once in the farmer’s market.

  “This man says he saw a figure dressed in red armor leaving the home of Winslow Carvenell and going toward your door. When I questioned Shina Auw she broke down and confessed having found the ring from your costume at the scene of the murder, and giving you said ring during a period of poor judgment.”

  I had to hand it to Gager, a lesser man couldn’t have boomed his way through an utterance so long. At least if I am hung swiftly, I thought, I would not have to listen to his annoying voice too long.