A Cosmic Christmas

by Hank Davis

  Like all Gravity Spikers—or Heavies as most folks insisted on calling magicals of his type—Sullivan’s Power enabled him to manipulate the forces of gravity. He was just much better at it than everyone else. A quick surge of Power enabled him to see the nearby world as it really was, shades of mass, density, and force, and it told him that there was a single body in the hallway, approximately one hundred and twenty pounds.

  Hopeful that it might be business related, he quickly saw to it that both he and the office were presentable before answering. He stubbed out his cigarette and hid the magazine in his desk. Sullivan checked the mirror, fixed his tie, and ran a comb through his hair. He was built like a bull, had the face of an anvil, and wasn’t particularly well-spoken, but that was no excuse to not present well.

  The lady in the hall certainly knew how to present well. She was good looking, mid-twenties, brunette, and petite. She was wearing a blue dress, ten minks worth of coat, and shoes that cost more than all of Sullivan’s earthly possessions combined. “I need a private detective,” she stated, having to crane her neck to see since he was over a foot taller than she. “Are you Heavy Jake Sullivan?”

  “That’s me.” He didn’t much care for the nickname, but it would do. At least that meant she knew he was an Active and was okay with the fact. It wasn’t the kind of thing you advertised to most respectable clients. The general attitude was that Heavies were good for lifting things and that was about it. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.” Her blue eyes were red from crying. Her manner was resigned and tired.

  He closed the door behind her. She was graceful, like a dancer, as she walked in and took a seat. He went to the other side of the desk and settled into his massively reinforced chair. Sullivan weighed far more than he appeared to, a byproduct of his magical experimentation, and he’d gotten tired of breaking chairs.

  “So what brings you to this neighborhood?”

  “You came highly recommended.” The lady glanced around the room. There was a single light bulb wired into the ceiling and the whole place seemed dingy and small. It was times like this that he wished he could afford a real office instead of this rotten dive. Judging by her get-up, she could hire whoever she felt like, but apparently she was undeterred by the shabbiness of her host or his office. “I need your help.”

  “Sure,” he answered. “I’m afraid I didn’t get your name.”

  “Emily Fordyce. I’m here about my husband.”

  So it was another jilted wife case. The rock on her wedding ring was huge, but in his experience the size of the rock seldom corresponded to a husband’s loyalty. “I’ll be glad to help, Mrs. Fordyce. What’s wrong with your husband?”

  “He’s missing,” she answered with a sniff. “He was abducted.”

  Sullivan perked up. His day had just become far more interesting. “Really?” She was obviously money, so he asked the logical question. “Has there been a ransom demand?”

  “There’s been no ransom, and the police say that he’s certainly dead.”

  Sullivan urged her to start from the beginning. Arthur Fordyce had not returned from his office days ago. Yesterday his automobile had been found in a ditch just outside of the city, where it had been hidden by the snow. A great deal of dried blood had been found on the seat. The car was otherwise undamaged.

  Emily became increasingly upset as she spoke. Sullivan offered her a smoke to calm her nerves, but she turned him down. He took one for himself. “Your husband have enemies?”

  “Oh, no. Everyone loved Arthur. He was a sweetheart.”

  “He gamble? Owe anyone money?” She shook her head in the negative. Those minks didn’t buy themselves. “What did he do for a living?”

  “He was a Healer.”

  Sullivan stopped, match hovering just below his suddenly forgotten cigarette. “A Healer?”

  Emily nodded. “He’s an Active and very skilled. He works freelance, fixing anyone that can afford his services. The finest families in the city have used him.”

  Healers of any kind were rare, Active Healers with significant amounts of Power were especially so. They were talking about somebody who could cure any illness or mend any wound with a touch. Someone who was literally worth more than their weight in gold. “I’ve never actually spoken to a real live Healer . . . Who were your husband’s recent clients?”

  “Arthur didn’t speak about many of them. You see . . . sometimes influential people need to be discreet . . . ” Rich guys with syphilis, went unsaid. “I know he did do a Healing for an unsavory man recently who may be some sort of criminal. His name was something Horowitz.”

  That was a bad sign if it was who Sullivan was thinking of. Abraham Horowitz was a local legend amongst the bootleggers, but it did give him a place to start. Sullivan spent the next hour learning everything he could about the last days of Arthur Fordyce. When he’d exhausted his questions and Emily looked like she would begin crying again, Sullivan decided that she needed to get home.

  “Yes, that’s probably a good idea, but we’ve not yet talked about your fee . . . Whatever it normally is, double it. I’m prepared to write you a check in advance.”

  He’d need operating money, but his pride didn’t like taking money for work unperformed. “That’s not necessary, ma’am.”

  “I’ve got more bank accounts than husbands. Just find him.”

  “All right, then. I’ll do my best, Mrs. Fordyce,” Sullivan promised.

  Emily pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed her eyes. “I know you will, Mr. Sullivan. You came highly recommended.”

  Sullivan certainly hadn’t performed many jobs in her neck of the woods. The Fordyces lived over on mansion row in Woodbridge. “Who recommended me?”

  “Arthur, of course.”

  Sullivan didn’t know what to make of that response. “Your missing husband . . .”

  “I’m sorry, that must sound rather crazy.” His expression must have confirmed the idea. “Not recently, obviously. No, it was because of a newspaper article several months ago. It said you helped the government capture some Active madman.”

  “I know the one.” He had gotten a brief mention in the papers after he’d helped the BI arrest Crusher Marceau in Hot Springs. There had been no mention of Jake being a recently released convict, thankfully, because that would have sent J. Edgar Hoover into an apocalyptic fit.

  “Arthur knew right away who you were and said that if we ever had need of a private detective, then you would be the only man for the job because you didn’t know the meaning of the word quit. You see, he had a lot of respect for you. Arthur was in the First Volunteers during the war too, Mr. Sullivan. I believe every survivor of the Second Somme knows who you are.”

  Sullivan was humbled. His respect for Arthur Fordyce had just grown tremendously. Very few Healers had bothered to join the Volunteers. “Men like your husband saved a lot of lives over there.”

  “Arthur led me to believe that you saved even more, Mr. Sullivan . . . Now please do it again, and if my husband has been . . .” She choked on the word, then couldn’t finish. Sullivan came around, but he didn’t know the first thing about how to comfort a grieving woman. Luckily, she waved him away. “I’m fine . . . I’m fine. I’ll be going.”

  Sullivan opened the door for her. Emily stopped, and her voice grew unexpectedly hard. “If Arthur is gone, then I don’t want the men who did it arrested, I want them gone too. Do you understand me, Mr. Sullivan? If they hurt him, I want you to hurt them right back, and if you do so I will double your fee again. I want you to do to them what Arthur said you did to the Kaiser’s army.”

  Sullivan closed the door behind her. Rage at the men who might have made her a widow notwithstanding, Emily didn’t know what she was asking for. He wouldn’t wish the fate of the Kaiser’s army on anyone.

  It was snowing when he left the office.

  Arthur Fordyce’s automobile had been towed to a police lot. A quick phone call to a Detroit P.D. of
ficer who owed him a favor got Sullivan inside for a quick look. The car was a ritzy ’29 Dusenberg roadster. The paint gleamed with tiny flecks of real gold. Ostentatious, but fitting for a Healer. The only thing that spoiled the perfection was the gallon of blood someone had left to dry on the leather seats. Most of the blood was on the driver’s side, like it had pooled around a body. No wonder the law was assuming it was a murder instead of a kidnapping.

  Sullivan was still poking around the Dusenberg when there was an angry cough from behind. He turned to see Detective Sergeant Ragan. “Afternoon, Detective.”

  “What’re you doing in there, Sullivan?”

  He’d cultivated a decent enough relationship with many of the local cops, but not all of them. Ragan was in the latter category. An old fashioned, hard drinking, tough guy, Ragan didn’t like magicals, and he especially didn’t like ones with reputations for having accidentally killed a law enforcement officer, even if the officer in question had been a murderous piece of work. “Mrs. Fordyce hired me to find her husband.”

  “Find her husband’s body is more like it . . .”

  “Who you think did it?” Sullivan asked, still going about his business.

  “Whole case is fishy. I’m thinking the wife had him popped, just to get the insurance money. Fellow like that’s bound to have a hefty life insurance policy.”

  Sullivan snorted. “That’s rich.”

  “Why am I even talking to the likes of you? Get out of there! That’s evidence.” Sullivan climbed out of the car, quickly hiding the handkerchief he’d used to wipe up some blood. “You can’t be in here. Who let you in?”

  “Nice fella. Forgot his name. About this tall . . .” Sullivan held his hand out about shoulder height then moved it up and down six inches.

  “You private ops are a pain in the neck. I ought to have you arrested for tampering with evidence.”

  That would never hold, but Sullivan definitely didn’t want to spend Christmas in a cell. It was time to go. “My apologies, Detective.” Sullivan tipped his hat and walked way.

  Sometimes prejudices make life harder than it needs to be. Sullivan was fairly certain that if Ragan was running the official investigation then there was no way in the world that he’d resort to consulting a Finder. Ragan distrusted magic, and besides, any clues divulged through magical means wouldn’t be admissible in a court of law. Sullivan didn’t have those issues. He just wanted to find Arthur Fordyce and get paid.

  To be fair, it wasn’t just about the money this time. Fordyce was a fellow veteran of Roosevelt’s First Volunteer Active Brigade. Sullivan had never associated with any of the unit’s Healers, other than to dump wounded soldiers onto their tables. The valuable Healers had been kept as far from the front as possible, while the dime-a-dozen Spikers were always where the bullets were flying. Healers were officers, Sullivan had been an enlisted man, but despite those differences, they’d both shared a little slice of hell in the biggest battle in human history, and that made them brothers.

  Sullivan would have done his best no matter what, that was just his single-minded nature, but Fordyce wasn’t some anonymous victim. He was First Volunteer, and that made it personal.

  The fourth best Finder in Detroit lived in a humble home in Brush Park. Sullivan couldn’t afford the other three. A reliable Finder demanded a premium wage. Finders existed in that nebulous grey area of Active popularity. The public considered them useful but scary. At least Finders were far more well-liked than their more powerful cousins, the Summoners. Most religious types simply wouldn’t tolerate them or their alien Summoned.

  It didn’t help that Finders tended to be a few bricks shy of a wall. Talking to disembodied spirits all day tended to do that to a person. Bernie was all right though . . . Usually.

  Sullivan knocked and only had to wait a minute to be let in. Bernie was a pudgy, unshaven, wild-eyed fellow, and today he was wearing some pajamas that had seen better days. “Sullivan! Good to see you, my boy.”

  “Nice hat, Bernie.”

  Bernie’s head was wrapped in a tin-foil cone. “Keeps some of the voices out,” he explained. “I picked up a screamer this morning. Poor thing won’t shut up. You know how it goes.”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Come in! Come in!” Bernie dragged him inside. The interior of the home was filled with stacks of newspapers and at least a dozen mangy cats. Bernie kicked stray felines out of the way as he led Sullivan to the living room. “Did you bring me a present?”

  “I got you a sandwich.” He passed over a paper sack. Bernie had a reputation for forgetting to eat when he was on a Finding, and Sullivan needed him focused. Sullivan then pulled out the red-stained handkerchief. “And this.”

  Bernie took the handkerchief. “Oh . . .” He sounded disappointed. “I meant a Christmas present.”

  “Sandwich isn’t good enough? Well, if you Find me the body that blood came out of I’ll give you fifty bucks. This is a rush job.”

  The Finder studied the stain. “Half up front . . . And you still owe me a present.”

  “Fair enough.” Sullivan had cashed Emily Fordyce’s generous advance check already and he counted out the bills. “What do you get for the man that’s already got everything?”

  “I’m almost out of tin foil.” Bernie shoved a particularly ugly cat off the couch and took a seat. He placed the handkerchief on the stack of newspapers that, judging from all the dirty plates and dishes stacked on it, served as his table. “Rush job, eh? I’ve got just the spirit for you. Strongest thing on her plane. I call her Mae, ‘cause you know, she kinda reminds me of this poster of Mae West I got. Bringing her in burns up all my Power for a few days, but she works real fast. I’m warning ya, if this body ain’t close, it could take time.”

  Sullivan leaned against the wall. His overcoat was black and he didn’t particularly want to cover it in cat hair. “If you can do a Finding for me today I’ll get you two rolls of foil.”

  Bernie rubbed his hands together greedily. “You got a deal, but lots of things can go wrong. If the body is buried real deep, takes time. If the thing I’m Finding is behind iron . . . If it’s been cut into little bits and scattered, or if it’s been burned to ash, or if—”

  “Just do your best, Bernie.” Sullivan settled in to wait. He knew how erratic this method was, but when it worked, it worked really well. They’d used the disembodied creatures of the Finders as scouts during the war. Nobody knew where the creatures came from exactly, they tended to be flaky, but they could cover a lot of ground and see things a person couldn’t.

  Bernie concentrated on the handkerchief, scowled, confused, then cheered up as he remembered he was wearing a hat. He took the tin foil off and went back to concentrating. “That’s better. Here comes Mae.”

  The lights flickered and the house shook. Stacks of newspapers tumbled. Cats screeched and ran for cover. At first Sullivan thought that they were having an earthquake, but then the wind hit, sending the curtains billowing across the room. Sullivan stumbled back as his fedora was blown off.

  “Ain’t she a good girl? Yes, she is. Mae’s my good girl.”

  Bernie hadn’t been lying. This one was a doozy. Sullivan had been around many summonings, but this was the first time he’d actually been able to see the shape of the vaporous creature, even if it was only for an instant. The thing hovered in the center of the room, a weird conglomeration of winged hippopotamus and six-legged porcupine with four glowing eyes, and then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

  The curtains and blowing trash settled. Sullivan picked up his fedora and brushed away the cat hair. “Impressive critter . . . Though I don’t see the resemblance to Mae West.”

  Bernie put his tin-foil hat back on. “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, Sullivan.”

  * * *

  Mae had told Bernie that it was going to take awhile. Arthur Fordyce wasn’t close, which meant she needed time to roam. Sullivan was still holding out hopes that Fordyce was alive, he was a Heal
er after all. Despite the volume of blood, Sullivan could only assume that Healers could fix themselves like they could fix everyone else, provided Fordyce was conscious or had Power enough to do it. Hopefully the demon-hippopotamus-porcupine ghost would come back with good news.

  In the meantime, Sullivan had another lead to follow.

  Abraham Horowitz ran with the Purple Gang, and the Purple Gang ran most of Detroit. Predominately Jewish, they were strongest on the east side, but there wasn’t a criminal activity in this city that they didn’t have a piece of. Mostly they stuck with bootlegging, tried to limit their killing to competitors, and kept the petty crooks under heel well enough to keep the law happy. They were tough enough that even Al Capone knew it was easier to just buy from them than to go to war.

  If you saw a boat on the Detroit River with gunmen on it, then it probably belonged to the Purples. Nobody brought Canadian booze across the river except for the Purple gang, and if you got caught trying it, you’d get boarded, robbed, and sunk . . . And swimming is difficult with a .45 slug in your chest. The locals called them the Little Jewish Navy, which meant that Abraham Horowitz probably held the rank equivalent of admiral.

  The snow had gotten worse and the worn-out tires on Sullivan’s old Ford didn’t get the best traction, so it took him awhile to get across town. Horowitz’s base of operations was at a sugar mill on the river’s edge. The mill was legitimate. The hoodlums hanging out in front of the business office obviously were not.

  Sullivan stopped the car and got out. The sun was going down and taking the last bit of warmth with it. He threw on his scarf and gloves, but left his coat open in order to get to the .45 automatic on his hip. He knew some of the Purples’ muscle since they’d also worked the UBF strike, so wasn’t expecting any trouble, but with these types violence was always in the air.

  Three men were loafing on a bench at the top of the steps. To the side, the rollup doors to the sugarhouse were open and two burly men were throwing burlap sacks onto the back of a truck. He didn’t even need to activate his Power to know they were like him. The way that each of them were effortlessly lifting four or five fifty-pound sacks at a time told him that the workers were fellow Spikers. A bunch of guys sitting around smoking while Actives did all the work . . . Figures.