M.Y.T.H. Inc In Action m-9

by Robert Asprin

  "Maybe he should try keyboards," I sez.

  "Try what?" she blinks, suddenly takin' more interest in the conversation.

  "Key ... Oh! Nothin'. Hey, I got to be goin' now. Nice talkin' with you."

  With that I beat a hasty retreat, a little annoyed with myself. Again my time on Deva has almost gotten me in trouble. For a second there, I forgot that this dimension not only doesn't have keyboards, it does not have the electricity necessary for the pluggin' in of said instrument.

  "Hey Guido!" comes a familiar voice, interruptin' my thoughts. "What's the word?"

  I looked around to find Nunzio and the rest of the crew bearin' down on me.

  "No big deal," I shrugs. "We don't even go on duty until tomorrow. The commander's given us the rest of the day to settle in and check out the town."

  "Sounds good to me," Hy Flie sez, rubbin' his hands together like ... well, like a fly. "What say we get something to eat ... and at the same time see if we can find a place to hang out on our off-duty hours."

  "How about the spaghetti place we passed on the way here?" Spyder sez, jerkin' her head back in the direction they had come from.

  I shoot a quick glance at Nunzio, who is already lookin' at me. As so often happens when we're workin' together, we are thinkin' the same thing at the same time, and this time we're both thinkin' that the best way to avoid runnin' into someone with Mob connections is by not usin' a spaghetti place for a base of operations.

  "Ah ... let's see if we can find someplace less likely ... I mean, closer." I suggest, casual-like.

  "Well, how 'bout we try right here?" Nunzio chimes in, pickin' up on my general train of thought.

  I look where he is pointin', and have to admit that it is probably the last place someone from the Mob would think of lookin' for us. The sign over the door of the joint reads, ABDUL'S SUSHI BAR AND BAIT SHOP.

  "Sushi?" Shu Flie scowls. "You mean like raw fish?"

  "At least we know it's fresh," Junebug sez, gesturin' at the second part of the sign.

  "Oh, don't be a bunch of babies" Spyder grins, givin' Shu a poke in the ribs. "Wait 'til you've tried it. It's good! Come on."

  Now, I am no more enthusiastic than the Flie brothers about eatin' this stuff, even though Nunzio has been after me for some time to give it a try. I mean, I'm used to fish in a tomato sauce or somethin', served with pasta—not rice. Still, there seems little option than to follow Spyder and Nunzio as they merrily lead the way into the place.

  "Ah! Members of our noble fighting forces!" the proprietor sez, slitherin' up out of the dim depths to greet us. "Please, come right in. We give special discounts for our men ... and ladies ... in uniform!"

  "Can we have a table close to the window so's there's more light?" Nunzio sez, giving me a wink.

  I know what he is thinkin' and normally would approve. The proprietor is makin' me feel a little uneasy, however. Despite his toothy smile, I have a strong feelin' he can tell within a few pieces of small change how much money our crew is carryin' ... and is already tryin' to figure how much of it he can glom onto before we escape. In short, I haven't felt this sized up by a merchant since we left the Bazaar at Deva.

  Despite my growin' discomfort, I join the crew as the proprietor ushers us to a window table and distributes menus. Everybody gives their drink orders, then start porin' over the menus with Spyder and Junebug servin' as interpreters ... everyone except Nunzio, that is.

  Ignorin' his menu completely, my cousin starts fishin' around his belt pouch.

  "While we're here, anyone care for a couple quick hands of Dragon Poker?" he sez innocentlike, producin' a deck of cards and a battered, dog-eared book.

  The whole crew groans at this, a sure indication of their familiarity with the game, which is not surprisin' as Nunzio and me have been takin' great pains to teach it to 'em. Despite their apparent reluctance, however, I notice that their stakes money appears on the table in a quick ripple of movement, which is in itself a testimony to the addictin' nature of this particular pastime. I can speak from my own experience in sayin' that there is nothin' like watchin' a pot you've built on a nice hand disappear into someone else's stack because of some obscure-type Conditional Modifier to convince a new player that it is definitely in his best interest to learn more about the game as it is his only chance of winnin' some of his money back, much less show a profit. That is, you play your first game of Dragon Poker for the fun of it, and after that youse is playin' for revenge.

  "Okay ... ante up!" Nunzio sez, givin' the cards a quick shuffle and offerin' the deck for a cut.

  "Not so fast, cousin," I interrupts, fishin' my own copy of the rulebook out. "First, let's settle what the Conditional Modifiers are."

  "Why bother?" Shue Flie grimaces. "They change every day."

  "Every day? You mean every hour!" his brother sez.

  "Whatever," Spyder shrugs. "Start dealing Nunzio. Swatter here can fill us in on the high points."

  For those of youse unfamiliar with Dragon Poker, it is a very popular means of redistributin' wealth throughout the dimensions. You can think of it as nine card stud poker with six card hands ... that is, if you don't mind gettin' your brains beat out financially. You see, on top of the normal rules of card playin', there are Conditional Modifiers which can change the value of a card or hand dependin' on the dimension, hour of the day, number of players, position at the table, or any one of a multitude of other factors, makin' Dragon Poker the most difficult and confusin' card game in all the dimensions.

  Nunzio and me got fascinated by dis game whilst everyone was tryin' to teach it to the Boss in time for his big match with the Sen-Sen Ante Kid, and it isn't really all that hard ... providin' one had a copy of the rules applicable to the dimension youse is in at the time. (Of course, the Boss couldn't use a book durin' the big match, as he was supposed to be an expert already.) Before leavin' the Bazaar for this particular caper, both Nunzio and me included pickin' up copies of the rulebook for Klah (our home dimension where dis narration is takin' place) as part of our preparations. If youse perhaps think that buying two copies of the rulebook is a needless expense, let me give youse a free tip about playin' Dragon Poker: Your best defense at the table is havin' your own copy of the rules. Youse see, one of the standin' rules in any Dragon Poker game is that the players are individually responsible for knowin' the Conditional Modifiers. Put simply, this means that if you don't know a particular modifier which would turn your nothin' hand into a winner, no one is obligated to announce it to you. This is a tradition of the game and has nothin' to do with the honesty of them what plays it. If anything, it avoids accusations that a player deliberately withheld information to win a hand rather than a particular modifier simply bein' overlooked amidst the multitude of modifiers in effect at any given time. In short, as much as I trust my cousin Nunzio to cover my back in a brawl, I feel it wisest not to count on him lookin' out for my interest at a Dragon Poker table, and therefore figure havin' my own copy of the rulebook is a necessary expense, not a luxury or convenience.

  "Let's see," I sez, thumbin' through the book, "the sun is out ... and we're playin' indoors ..."

  "... and there's an odd number of players ..." Spyder supplies, showin' she's gettin' the hang of the modifyin' factors.

  "... and one of them is female ... sort of ..." Junebug adds, winkin' at Spyder.

  "Sorry to take so long with your drinks, my friends," the proprietor sez, announcin' his presence as he arrives back at the table with a tray of potables. "Now, who has the ... HEY! WHAT IS THIS???!!!"

  It suddenly occurs to me that there may be some local ordinance against gamblin' ... which would explain why the proprietor is suddenly so upset.

  "This?" I sez, innocent-like. "Oh, we're just havin' a friendly little game of cards here. Don't worry, we're just usin' the coins to keep score and ..."

  "Don't give me that!" our host snarls, with no trace of his earlier greasy friendliness. "That's Dragon Poker you're playing! No one plays that g
ame unless ..."

  He breaks off sudden-like and starts givin' each of us the hairy eyeball.

  "All right, which one of you is a demon? Or is it all of you? Never mind! I want you all out of here ... RIGHT NOW!!!"

  Chapter Eight:

  "It takes one to know one!"

  -JACK D. RIPPER

  TO SAY THE proprietor's accusation caused a stir at our table is like sayin' it would cause raised eyebrows to have Don Bruce as the guest speaker at a Policeman's Banquet. Unfortuitously, everyone had different questions to ask.

  "What's he mean 'demon'?" Spyder demanded.

  I started to answer her, as I knew from my work with the Boss that a demon is the commonly accepted term for a dimension traveler, but there was too much cross-talk for rational-type conversation.

  "Are we supposed to leave?" Spellin' Bee sez, scared-like as he peered at the retreatin' figure.

  "What's wrong with Dragon Poker?" Shu Flie put in.

  "Nothin'!" I sez to him. "You see, Spyder ..."

  "Then what put the burr under his saddle?" Shu pressed, startin' to get under my skin.

  Fortunately, in trainin' I have discovered there is one way to shut this particular individual up when he gets on a roll.

  "Shu Flie," I sez, "don't bother me."

  It was an old joke by this time, but it still got a laugh ... which is not surprisin' as I have found that the vast majority of army humor pivots on old jokes.

  "Watch yourself, brother," Hy Flie sez, pokin' Shu in the ribs. "The Swatter there is lookin' to squash a fly again ... and he might not be too picky about which of us he swats."

  Under the cover of this new round of laughs, Nunzio leans forward to talk to me direct. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, cuz?"

  "That, of course, depends upon what it is you are thinkin', Nunzio," I sez, reasonable-like. "If, perchance, you are thinkin' that you can color our cover 'blown,' then we are, indeed, thinkin' along the same lines,"

  To my surprise, instead of agreein' he rolls his eyes like he does when I'm missin' something which to him is obvious.

  "Think it through, Guido," he sez. "He thinks we're from off-dimension, because we know about Dragon Poker ... right?"

  "Yeah. So?"

  "So how does he know about it?" To me, this question is as trivial as wonderin' how a cop happens to know about a particular ordinance ... which is to say it is beside the point, totally overlookin' the immediate dilemma of dealin' with the aftermath of us gettin' caught breakin' it.

  "I dunno. I guess someone showed it to him. So what?"

  For some reason, this seems to get Nunzio even more upset.

  "Guido," he sez, clenchin' his teeth, "sometimes I wonder if all those knocks on the head you've taken have ... oops! He's coming back. Quick ... Bee?"

  "Yes, Nunzio?" our junior magician sez, blinkin' with surprise at havin' been suddenly included in our discussion.

  "Get your Dis-spell ready, and when I give you the nod ... throw it on the proprietor."

  "The proprietor? Why?"

  "Bee ... just do it. Okay?" I interrupts, havin' learned from experience that the only thing that takes longer than listenin' to one of Nunzio's lectures is tryin' to pry a straight answer out of him when he's tryin' to let you discover the point yourself.

  Bee starts to say somethin', then shuts his mouth, shrugs, startin' to mumble and mutter like he does when he's gettin' ready to use magik.

  The others at the table look at Nunzio expectantlike, but he just leans back in his chair lookin' confident and smug. I, of course, imitate his action, though I have no more idea what he is about to pull than the rest of the crew. You see, past experience has taught me that one of the best times to act confident is when youse is totally in the dark ... but would just as soon no one else is aware of your ignorance.

  "Are you still here?" the proprietor demands, materializin' beside our table again. "I don't want to have to tell you again! Now get out before I call the cops!"

  "I don't think so," Nunzio sez, starin' at the ceilin'.

  "WHAT??!!"

  "... In fact, I was thinkin' we might want to make your place our home away from home ... If you know what I mean."

  "Izzat so?! Think just 'cause you're in the Army you can do anything you want, do you? Well, let me tell you something, soldier-boy. I happen to be a tax paying member of this community in good standing with the authorities, and soldiers or not they don't take too kindly to demons in these parts. In fact, I can't think of one good reason why I shouldn't call the police right now and have them drag you all right out of here!"

  "I can," Nunzio smiles, and nods at Bee.

  At the cue, Spellin' Bee squares his shoulders, purses his lips, and lets fly with his Dis-Spell, and ...

  "What the ..."

  "MY GOD!!!"

  "Lookit ..."

  The reason for this outpourin' of surprise and disbelief on the part of our crew is that, despite our time with them, Nunzio and me has failed to brief or otherwise prepare them for acceptin' the concept of demons ... which is what they're suddenly confronted with. That is, as soon as Bee completed his spell, there was a ripplin' in the air around the proprietor, and instead of a greasy local type, he now looked just like ...

  "A Deveel!" I sez, hidin' my own surprise.

  Actually, I am a little annoyed at myself for not havin' figured it out on my own. I mean, no matter what he looked like, I had been thinkin' that he was actin' like a Deveel since I first set eyes on him.

  The reaction of our crew to this discovery, however, is nothin' compared to the reaction we gets from the proprietor.

  "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!??" he screeches, lookin' around the place desperately, only to find we are the only ones present. "YOU TRYIN' TO GET ME LYNCHED???"

  With that, he goes scuttlin' off, leavin' Nunzio and me to deal with the confusion caused by the removal of his disguise.

  "THAT WAS A DEVIL!!!"

  I miss who exactly it is who observes this particular utterance, as it is said behind me and the choked, gargley nature of the voice makes positive identification no easy task. Still, I have no difficulty comin' up with a response.

  "I know. That's what I said before," I explain.

  "No, you said he was a Da-veel," Junebug sez frownin'.

  "Same difference," I shrugs.

  "Look," Spyder sez, holdin' up a hand to the others for them to be quiet. "Are you guys going to tell us what's goin' on here or not?"

  "Guido," Nunzio sez, jerkin' his head in the direction the proprietor has gone. "Why don't you go do a little negotiating with our host before he gets too recovered from our little surprise, whilst I try to explain the facts of life to our colleagues."

  This is fine by me, as I do not share my cousin's love of lengthy and confusin' explanations and am glad to be excused from what promises to be a classic opportunity for him to pontificate. Besides, it is not often that one has a chance to really stick it to a Deveel, and as in those few occasions I have been present for, I have usually had rank pulled on my by the financial types of the M.Y.T.H. Inc. team, I am lookin' forward to a rare opportunity to demonstrate my own negotiatin' talents. Of course, it occurs to me that the only witness I will have for this exercise will be the individual upon whom I am turnin' the screws, and he will doubtless be less than appreciative of my finesse. Doin' one's best work in the absence of witnesses is, however, one of the unfortunate and unjust realities of my chosen profession, and I have long since resigned myself to the burden of anonymity ... tellin' myself that if I had wanted to be a well-known crook, I should have gone into politics.

  The proprietor has vanished like a cat burglar at the sound of a bell, but I soon discover him in a

  small office behind the bar. He is holdin' one of those small foldin' cases with a mirror in it like broads use to check their makeup, only instead of powder and colored goop, his just seems to have a couple dials in it. Starin' into the mirror, he twiddles with the dials a bit ... and slowly the disguise
he was wearin' before came into focus again, leadin' me to conclude that it is some kind of magik device. If it seems to youse that it took me a long time to reach this conclusion, you are makin' the mistake of underestimatin' my speed of thinkin'. Included in my observational analysis was a certain amount of speculation of whether such a device might be handy to have for my own use ... as well as whether it would be better to obtain one on my own or simply include this one in my negotiations.

  Apparently the gizmo also functions as a normal mirror, as the proprietor suddenly shifts the angle he is holdin' it at so's we are starin' at each other in the glass, then he snaps it shut and turns to face me.

  "What do you want?!" he snarls. "Haven't you done enough to me already?"

  I do not even bother tryin' to point out that I am not the one what stripped him of his disguise spell, as I have learned durin' my residence on Deva that unless they are actively sellin', which fortunately is most of the time, Deveels are extremely unpleasant and unreasonable folks who do not accept that simple logic is sufficient reason to stop complainin'. They do, however, respond to reason.

  "I have come as a peace emissary," I sez, "in an effort to reach an equitable settlement of our differences."

  The Deveel simply makes a rude noise at this, which I magnanimously ignore as I continue.

  "I would suggest you meet our offer with equal enthusiasm for peace ... seein' as how continued hostilities between us will doubtless result in my colleagues and me trashin' this fine establishment of yours ..."

  "What? My place?" the proprietor blinks, his mouth continuin' to open and close like a fish out of water.

  "... As well as spreadin' the word about your bein' a Deveel to the authorities you was so ungraciously threatenin' us with . , . and anyone else in this town who will listen. Know what I mean?"

  Now, I have this joker cold, and we both know it. Still he rallies back like a punch-drunk boxing champ on the downslide, fightin' more from guts and habit than from any hope of winnin'.