by Doug Draa
I suppressed a groan. A surfer? He had to be kidding. And in New York? Must be a lonely guy.
MacFury scribbled down some instructions and went off, grumbling about some people being too damned busy to take the time to stop off for the best food in town. For two pins I would have stayed.
He’d directed me to a bar down along the far eastern end of the harbour, kind of crushed in between some very uncouth places where I knew my face would not be welcome. So I pulled up my collar, drew my hat down and shuffled as inconspicuously as I could down the maze of seedy alleys that led to Surf City Central, my unlikely destination. Any port—or bar—in a storm. From outside I could hear the thump of music within, a medley of surfing classics, and for a moment I thought I’d somehow teleported to California.
I went in and felt immediately overdressed, my gear in complete contrast to that of everyone else. My guess was the average age of this packed crowd was nineteen, maybe less. Dudes and babes dressed like it was high summer, long hair flowing, bronzed torsos gleaming—the place looked as if it had been lifted up from the West Coast in midsummer and dropped down here among the sombre harbour side. There were even surfboards—dozens of them—stacked against a wall, like the guys had all ridden in on them.
Naturally I got more than a few surprised looks, but I smiled and waved cheerily, edging my way through the laughing, drinking multitude. The barmen, a trio of them, were as young as the customers, busily dispensing drinks as fast as they could serve them. I have to say, the atmosphere in the place was uncommonly welcoming, if a little left field.
“I’m looking for Henry Maclean,” I told one of the barmen. He pointed to where a tall, thin guy with quintessential surfer’s blonde hair and sun-kissed skin was animatedly talking to a trio of cute young things. They looked suitably agog at whatever tales of the big surf he was regaling them with, using his hands to demonstrate the curve of the water and the wave tunnels it created.
“I’m Nick Stone—a friend of your uncle,” I told him when he paused for breath.
His grin widened. “Hey, man! Montifellini? How’s he doing? Haven’t seen him in ages.” He shook my hand, his grip very firm, his grin even wider. Somehow I had a good feeling about him and I set my usual scepticism about new faces aside.
“Last time I saw him he was fine. Can we talk—privately?”
He looked suddenly very serious, his expression exaggerated but somehow still honest. “Hey, ladies, I have to speak to this dude.” They smiled on cue and dissolved into the mass of bodies. Henry was clutching a pint, but it looked like a soft drink, topped with half the contents of an ice bucket and a few chunks of fruit.
“I’ll get to the point, Henry. I need to go to the Pulpworld. I’m a private eye and I’m looking for a bunch of people. Normally I’d ask your uncle to help me, but he’s busy right now.”
“The Pulpworld? Sure, you came to the right guy. The Deep Green is always ready to rock and roll. When do you want to leave, man?”
Was this going to be that easy? There had to be a catch. “You’re not talking about an airplane?” I said, barely masking my fears.
“Hell, no! The Deep Green is the fastest, slickest, slipperiest ship you ever rode in. She’s a submarine.”
When he took me to his craft, I had to keep reminding myself that I was in a real situation. We left the bar by a side door and went down a tight little alleyway, scattering a few marauding rats on the way to the river. There were a dozen or more big-bellied trawlers in this part of the docks, fat tyres hanging off their sides, decks half buried under piles of ropes and steel mesh pots. Henry led me down a rickety wooden set of steps that dropped us on to a flat, metal surface a few inches above the murky waters of the river. Even in the darkness I could see that the metal had been painted a dark color, which I took to be the deep green of the vessel’s name.
Henry bent down and twisted a short spar of metal, using it to lift a circular hatch that allowed him just enough room to climb down on to the steel stairs that dropped vertically from it. “The Deep Green welcomes you,” he said cheerfully.
I felt like I was sliding down into the gut of a huge fish, but I followed him, pulling the hatch to behind me. I was in a cramped space, brightly lit, surrounded by steel pipes, curling wires and a mess of dials. If this was a submarine, it was not a very big one, I thought. We squeezed our tortuous way along its corridor of dripping pipes that did little to instil confidence. I was okay with ships and boats, up on the surface, but going down under the sea, in something as seemingly leaky as this old tub, was not going to be the happy experience of the day, or indeed, the month.
We reached what he called the control deck, which was basically a wider area with a lowered periscope and a narrow table cluttered up with charts and instruments that looked like they belonged with Admiral Nelson—the one from Trafalgar. Squatting amongst the jumble, wielding a spanner the size of an axe was an ancient, oil-smeared guy, scowling at me like I was some kind of pirate interloper.
“Oil-Gun?” For a minute I thought it was someone I knew, a mechanic, an easy mistake to make in that cluttered space, but when he grinned I could see he was thinner, his face even more creased.
“You know Eddy?” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “We’ve had a few days out together.”
“This,” interrupted Henry, “is Gottfried Zeitgeist. Former Admiral of the Imperial German War fleet. Just won’t admit it, is all.”
The old boy—he was seventy if he was a day—struggled to his feet and shook my hand. “Take no notice of young Henry’s bullshit. I’m Stan—Sten-Gun Stan. Just another ex-grunt. I fought with Oil-Gun Eddy back in Nam when we were nineteen year old kids. Saved each other’s butts several times over. That’s where we got our names. I was never anything to do with the freakin’ Imperial German whatever.”
“I’m Nick Stone. Glad to know you, Stan.”
Henry had left us, shouting something about brewing up some coffee. “He’s a good kid,” Stan told me. “Scatter-brained and erratic as a fart in a thunderstorm, but he’s okay. He’s convinced himself that I’m not just a good engineer, but I’m really hiding my true identity, like I’m the goddam ex Admiral of the German war machine. I got no more German blood in me than a thoroughbred Apache, but he won’t listen. So what brings you aboard? You know this tub can take you anywhere. Places you wouldn’t dream of.”
Henry arrived with the coffee and we all sipped at it. I gave them a few details about what I was up to and they both nodded sagely, taking it all in, the business as usual.
“Pulpworld?” said Henry. “Straightforward run. I haven’t been for a while, but there’s places where the surf’s good. We can drop Mr Stone off, Admiral, and have some fun at the same time—you must have a few former confederates over there, Admiral. Chew over the good old military days.”
“You’re nuts,” Stan snorted.
Unmoved, Henry asked me, “So you want me to find out about this carnival? Should be easy enough. There’s one that sets up regularly. Even if it isn’t Count Rudolfo’s, they’ll know where it is. They’re all part of a network, kind of a gypsy fraternity. Okay, let’s get our own show on the road. Chocks away, Admiral.”
“Fer Chrissakes, Henry, this ain’t an aircraft,” Stan growled exasperatedly. But Henry was already wriggling past another bank of pipes and steel tubes, and I could hear the unmistakable strains of “Yellow Submarine” drifting back to me as he worked.
“So he’s colour-blind?” I said.
Stan shuddered, resignedly getting to work.
I tried to settle back, but as the underwater craft slid away from the harbour and lowered itself into the river, it was difficult not to think of myself being trapped in a leaking, submersible washing machine. I was praying this trip would be a quick one.
An hour limped by and I’d somehow managed to doze off in the thick, cloying heat. I snapped awake w
hen the craft suddenly shook and rolled excessively, as if it had been caught in a particularly turbulent current. I had to grab a hold of pipework on either side of me to save myself being swung feet upwards like an astronaut in a weightless space pod. By the time I rectified myself, Henry was grinning at me.
“It’s okay, Mr Stone. It’s a Swallower.”
Now there was a name guaranteed to pump up the adrenalin level. “A Swallower? And just what in hell would that be, Henry?”
He scratched his tousled blonde mop. “Don’t know for sure. Never actually seen one. It’s either some kind of oceanic black hole, like they have out in deep space, or more likely a mother of a whale-thing. Whatever, it’ll gulp us down, spin us about some and then evacuate us out the other end—”
I gaped at him. “You are kidding me.”
“Sometimes we have to use a tin fish to ease our passage. You know, blow our way out, but that’s okay.”
Something rattled to the front of my memory. “A tin fish? You’re talking torpedo here?”
“Sure. The Admiral keeps a few primed and ready to go at all times. Whatever, once we stop churning about in this thing’s gut, we’ll be through and into the Pulpworld. Sound like a plan?”
“Remind me to get the bus on the return journey,” I muttered, but Henry was busy again and a moment later I saw him undress and slip into a skin-tight wet suit that looked like it had been painted on.
The Deep Green performed several more undersea somersaults, somehow avoided rupturing its maze of pipes, and then seemed to stabilize. More dazed and confused than Robert Plant ever was, I vaguely heard Stan shouting out something about having ‘ripped through’—presumably to our destination.
“You need some air, Mr Stone,” said Henry, taking me to the vertical ladder that led up to the surface hatch. He scrambled up it, complete with—get this—a surfboard. It was jet black and had the open maw of a shark painted into its nose end. I followed its tail upwards and into a flattish seascape, washed by brilliant moonlight, and stood on the gently oscillating deck of the submarine. The air was very cool, but as welcome as an ice cold glass of beer.
I could see a chain of lights on the near horizon. Henry pointed. “The Admiral never lets me down. We’ve crossed. Why don’t you get yourself a deck chair from below and make yourself comfortable, Mr Stone. I’ll go and do some reconnaissance. Be back before you know it.” He said it as if inviting me to sit and sunbathe on a beach. And he was not joking. Right—at five a.m.?
I just nodded. He was studying a rolling bank of sea mist, grey against the backdrop of night and as it drifted across the water, swirling and twisting like spilled silk, he lowered his board, waiting. I was about to point out that there was no tide, ergo no surf—the sea was as flat as a proverbial pancake—when he gave a whoop and pushed the board off the submarine, jumping on to it and balancing lightly. To my amazement, the board rose with the eddy of mist and in no time, Henry was riding not a wave of water, but a curling bank of mist.
“Crazy how he does that,” said Stan beside me. “They call him the astral surfer. No one can ride a wind wave like that guy.” We both gawped at the surfer as he rose higher on the eddying mist, which could have been solid given Henry’s amazing exhibition. He glided down at speed into an aerial tunnel, blurring and then disappearing.
Stan slapped me on the back. “We can leave him to it. Time for an early breakfast.” He took me back down below, where I was surprised to learn that I had built up a hearty appetite.
* * * *
“There’s a carnival there and it’s Rudolfo’s, all right,” said Henry, back with us a couple of hours later. He downed a plate of bacon and eggs like it was the condemned man’s last meal and washed it down with almost an entire pot of coffee. “I spoke to some of the roustabouts. And those guys you want to interview, Dokta Dangerous and the Daggermen—they’re holed up in a coupla caravans. Look like the genuine articles to me, Mr Stone. Good old Hungarian boys. When d’ya want to go in?”
Stan was grinning at my expression—I’d been looking uneasily at the shark-nosed surfboard beside us. “It’s okay, Mr Stone, I can take the sub in to the docks, just like in your own New York.”
“Sure,” said Henry. “Plenty of time for surfing later, huh?”
“Of course,” I said. Didn’t seem any point in arguing.
Not long afterwards, with dawn smearing the eastern skies in a confusion of red and orange light, we stepped ashore in the Pulpworld’s equivalent of New York. I’d been here before, many times, and you never knew what was around the corner. I agreed to meet up with Henry later in the day and left him to his own devices on The Deep Green.
I’d been trying to figure what my approach was going to be. Dokta Dangerous and his troupe were, possibly, a bunch of killers and if so, they’d make short work of someone like me snooping around them. On the other hand, they might have been framed. I decided to go for the direct approach. If these guys took a dislike to me, they’d at least have to be subtle about kicking me out. So I found my way to the carnival, which was camped in a derelict area, its rides,tents and caravans clustered there like a small township.
At first when I asked for Dokta D, no one wanted to play ball. So I started grumbling about working for the FBI and maybe having to bring a whole squad in here. It got results and I was sent to a caravan that was painted every colour known to man, with amazingly ornate wheels and patterns that confused the eye. Staring at it for too long could send a guy nuts. Its low door creaked open and I climbed the steps and went inside.
It was surprisingly roomy, its walls hung with thick rugs and carpets, very expensive looking. In back of the caravan I could see several tall shapes, dark-haired men, bare-armed and tattooed, faces calm but their stares fixed on me in less than neighbourly fashion. Sitting on the central table was what I first took to be a kid, his legs drawn up under him, arms clutching his knees. When he spoke, I realised he was a man, a dwarf, maybe four feet tall.
“Nick Nightmare,” he said, his Hungarian accent rich and deep. “I heard about you.” I wasn’t about to ask him where from.
“I take it you’re Dokta Dangerous,” I said with a nod. “Don’t like to butt in, but I need a little chat.”
He grinned, revealing a set of amazingly white teeth, and ran a gnarled hand through his thick, black locks. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
“Your carnival was in my world recently. You left kinda quickly. Want to tell me about it?”
“Who’s employing you?”
“The Good Guys. They had some trouble back there. Something very messy.” I pulled out a small cloth bundle from inside my coast and unwrapped it. One of the knives that had been used to pin up the Mayor’s son twinkled in the oil lamplight.
“We know about that,” said the dwarf, his expression changing, his eyes cold. “It’s a very good fake. I can show you. Listen, can you hear that blow-fly behind you? Well, that knife can’t do this.” His right hand moved in a blur and something flashed vividly. There was a thump behind me. I turned slowly and saw that the knife the little fellar had thrown was embedded in one of the wooden panels of the wall. And it had very neatly split a blow-fly clean in two.
I whistled in admiration. “That’s what I call accuracy.”
The Dokta favoured me with another grin. “Only a true knife of the Daggermen could do that. Try it. You’ll find that knife you brought perfectly serviceable, Mr Nightmare, but to us, it’s a toy. And as I said, a fake. It and the others that were used on the Mayor’s son were all fakes. The killing was made to look like the work of my people and me.”
I nodded. “You could have stayed and talked it over with the cops.”
“No. The hoax was very elaborate and I suspect it would have worked. At best we would have suffered the indignity of a protracted questioning. We have better things to do with our time.”
“Sure. So—w
ho did the killing?”
His face again hardened. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“They sent me to find out. Maybe even bring back the killer, if he’s here.”
He laughed a short bark and for once the men behind him came to life, also laughing, but it didn’t warm me up. I felt like I was putting my arm into a snake pit.
“What we are talking about isn’t human,” said the dwarf. “It has many names. You would call it a demon, I suppose. An agent of Satan. In fact, there are several of them. We know them as the Angels of Malice. Terrible creatures, wielding very dangerous powers. Not the kind of beings that you can—arrest—and march back to your world.”
“So why did they frame you for the killing?”
“They want to recruit me and my Daggermen. The Angels of Malice are always hunting, always searching out those who they think can strengthen their black crusade. We spurned their offers. We have our own gods. Incensed, the Angels of Malice tried to use coercion. They have threatened us with worse things if we continue to rebuff them. I promise you, Mr Nightmare, we shall do.”
“Glad to hear it. But it poses a problem for me. I have to report back to the police in my world. If I tell them that some kind of demon is responsible, they won’t buy it. Not without proof. So how do I provide them with it? Remember, we’re talking about the Mayor’s son here. He’s gonna want to know the truth.”
The dwarf swung his short legs off the table and dangled them like pendulums as if it aided his thinking. “There’s only one way to teach them the truth. The truth is more powerful than a thousand lies. An old Hungarian saying.”
“I’m all ears.”
“You may wish you were deaf when I tell you what you must do. You must achieve the near impossible. You must overcome one of the Angels of Malice and take it back. Show your Mayor and the police. If you can do this, the other Angels of Malice will shun your world. A triumph, Mr Nightmare. Are you prepared to attempt such a bold venture?”
