“Because, among other things, it makes no sense theologically. The disposition of your soul upon death is dependent on the choices you make throughout your life. We all sin, and we all have moments of grace. The way the balance tips at the end of your life determines whether you end up with a harp or a pitchfork, to use another pair of cultural tropes.”
“What makes you such an authority?” Stone asked.
“Apart from what I do for a living, you mean? Well, I suppose my minor in Theology at Princeton might give me a little credibility, along with the major in Cultural Anthropology. But far more important is the fact that we’re talking about the essence of the Judeo-Christian tradition, Mr. Stone. The ticket to Heaven, or to Hell, is yours to earn. You don’t determine your spiritual fate by playing Let’s Make a Deal—with anybody.”
“But it worked, goddammit! I bargained for a return to success, and success is what I got.”
“What you got was confidence. You may have had a little good luck, too, but most of it was just you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. You must know how important confidence is in business. If you believe in yourself it shows, which causes other people to believe in you, too. And that’s where success usually comes from. You were convinced your business problems were going to be fixed, and thus you acted in such a way as to fix them. You assumed your failing marriage could be repaired, and so you went and repaired it. And so on. They call that a ‘self-fulfilling prophecy.’ Happens all the time.”
“My God.” Stone sat back in his chair, relief spreading over his face like a blush. But in a moment, he was frowning again. “Wait a minute—Dunjee, with his contract and the rest of it. I didn’t imagine that, I didn’t dream it, and I don’t do drugs that would give me those kinds of hallucinations.”
“I have no doubt he was there. That’s why I asked you what name he was using, and what he looked like. Your description was very accurate, by the way.”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Oh, yeah,” Morris said, with a broad smile. “When you deal with the occult, it pays to keep track of the various frauds who pretend to supernatural powers. A lot of my work involves debunking con artists.”
“Con artists? That’s what Dunjee was—nothing but a con artist?”
“Exactly. His real name, by the way, is Manfred Schwartz, and he ran that particular scam very lucratively for a number of years. He would look for successful people who had fallen on very hard times. He’d show up, go through the routine he used on you, get a signed contract, then fade away.”
Stone’s brow had developed deep furrows. “I don’t get it—how could he make money off that kind of thing? He didn’t ask me for a dime.”
“Not at the time, no. His approach, as I remember, was to visit a number of people, across a wide geographical area. He would go through his ‘deal with the devil’ act, then wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For his ‘clients’ ’ fortunes to improve. Some of them would never recover from their adversity, of course. Those folks would never see ‘Dunjee’ again. But Manny chose his victims carefully—people with brains, guts, and ambition, who had just been dealt a few bad hands in life’s poker game. People who might very well start winning again, especially if Manny convinced them that the powers of Hell were now on their side. Then, after they started to pull themselves out of their hole, Manny would show up again.”
“Before the ten years were up?”
“Oh, yes, long before. He’d say he was just checking to confirm that they were receiving what he had promised—and to remind them what the ultimate price would be. Then he’d sit there, looking evil, and wait for them to try to buy their way out of their contract.”
“Oh, my God,” Stone said. “I see what he was doing, the little bastard.”
“Sure. Manny would act reluctant, which would usually prompt the victim to offer even more money, which he would finally accept—in cash, of course. Then he’d make a ritual of tearing up the contract, and go off to spend his loot. It’s a perfect example of the long con, because the mark never knows that he’s been ripped off.”
“Wait a minute—Dunjee never came back to see me. Never!”
“I’m not surprised,” Morris said. “Because Manfred Schwartz was picked up by the FBI on multiple counts of interstate fraud—something like nine and half years ago.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Manny never came back to extort money out of you after your life got better, because Manny’s life took a turn for the worse. He’s currently serving fifteen to twenty-five in a federal pen—Atlanta, I think.”
“But I never heard a thing—the feds never asked me to testify.”
“Probably because Manny hadn’t received any money from you yet, so technically he hadn’t committed a crime. Besides, I expect the government had plenty of other witnesses to present at his trial.”
Stone leaned back in the easy chair and appeared to relax for the first time since he had shown up at Morris’s door.
“Feeling better?” Morris asked with a quiet smile.
“Better doesn’t begin to describe it,” Stone said. “I feel like . . . like I can take a deep breath for the first time in ten years.”
“Well, then, I’d say that calls for another libation.”
Morris took their empty glasses back to the sideboard. While mixing Stone’s bourbon and water, he unobtrusively opened a small wooden box and removed a couple of capsules. Using his body to shield what he was doing, he popped open the capsules and poured their contents into the drink he was making. He stirred the contents until the powder dissolved, then poured a Scotch for himself.
Morris gave Stone his drink and sat down again. The two of them talked desultorily for a while, then Stone said, “Man, I suddenly feel really wiped out.”
“Not surprising,” Morris said. “With the release of all that tension, you’re bound to feel pretty whipped. Anyone would.”
A few minutes later, Stone’s speech started to slur, as if he had consumed far more than two drinks. His eyelids began to droop, and then they closed all the way. Stone’s head fell forward onto his chest, and the nearly empty glass dropped from his fingers and rolled across the carpet, before coming to rest against a leg of Morris’s coffee table.
Morris called Stone’s name at a normal volume, then again, more loudly. Receiving no response, he slowly stood up and went over to the unconscious man. He put two fingers on the inside of Stone’s wrist and held them there for several seconds. Satisfied, he gently released Stone’s arm.
Morris then went into his bedroom and came back carrying a small, square-shaped bottle with a gold stopper. Back at the sideboard, he poured several ounces of a clear liquid from the bottle into a clean glass. He stoppered the bottle, then took the glass back over to his chair. He put the glass on a nearby end table, but did not drink from it. Then he glanced at his watch, picked up the latest issue of Skeptical Inquirer from the end table, and settled down to wait.
Morris did not check his watch again, but he knew the witching hour had arrived when a gray Homburg suddenly plopped onto the middle of his coffee table. Looking up, Morris saw a small man in an elegant suit and bow tie sitting on the sofa. The man absently stroked his goatee as he frowned in Morris’s direction.
“I was about to say that I’m surprised to see you, Quincey.” The little man’s voice was surprisingly deep. “But, on reflection, I really shouldn’t be. My last client tried to hide out in a cathedral, for all the good it did him. So I suppose it was only a matter of time before one of them came crying to you for protection.”
“I’m surprised you even bothered with this one, Dunjee,” Morris said. “He was contemplating suicide when you showed up to make your pitch, so you guys would have had him anyway.”
The little man shook his head. “Our projections were that he wouldn’t have given in to his suicidal ideations, more’s the pity. Even worse, there was a seventy-t
hirty probability that, after hitting rock bottom a year or so later, he was going to enter a monastery and devote the rest of his life to prayer and good works. Ugh.”
Dunjee stood up. “I hope we’re not going to have any unpleasantness over this, Quincey.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a sheet of paper, which he waved in Morris’s direction. “I have a contract, duly signed of his own free will. My principals have lived up to their part of the agreement, in every respect.” He glanced over at Stone, and the expression on his face reminded Morris of the way a glutton will look at a big plate of prime rib, medium rare. “Now it’s his turn.”
“You know that contract of yours is unenforceable in any court, whether in this world or the next,” Morris said. “The only thing you’ve got working for you is despair. The client thinks he’s damned, and his abandonment of hope in God’s mercy ultimately makes him so.”
Dunjee shrugged. “Say you’re right. It doesn’t matter a damn, you should pardon the expression. If it’s despair that makes him mine, so be it. Bottom line: the wretch is mine.”
“Not this time,” Morris said quietly.
“Surely you’re not claiming he didn’t accept the validity of the deal. Did he come running to you because he was eager to hear stories about that ancestor of yours who helped kill Dracula all those years ago? I don’t think so, Quincey. He knew he was damned, and he was hoping you could find him an escape clause.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Morris told him.
Dunjee stared at him, as if suspecting a trick. “So, why are we talking?”
“Because I found one.”
“Impossible!”
“Not at all. Despair is the key, remember? Well, he doesn’t despair any more. I convinced him that the soul is not ours to sell—which you admit yourself. Further, I spun him a yarn about how you were a con artist planning to come back when his luck changed and extort money from him, except you got arrested before you could return.” Morris shook his head in mock sympathy. “He doesn’t believe in the deal anymore, and that means there’s no deal at all.”
Dunjee’s eyes blazed. “He doesn’t believe?” Before Morris’s eyes, the little man began to grow and change form. “Then I will MAKE him believe!” The voice was now loud enough to rattle the windows, and Dunjee’s aspect had become something quite terrible to behold.
Morris swallowed, but did not look away. He had seen demons in their true form before. “That won’t work, either. I slipped him a mickey—120 milligrams of chloral hydrate, combined with about four ounces of bourbon. He’ll be unconscious for hours, and all the legions of Hell couldn’t wake him.”
Morris stood up then, facing the demon squarely. “The hour of midnight has come and gone, Hellspawn,” he said, formally. “You have failed to collect your prize, and consequently any agreement you may have had with this man is now void, in all respects and for all time.”
Morris picked up the glass he had prepared earlier. Pointing the index finger of his other hand at the demon he said, in a loud and resolute voice, “I enjoin you now to depart this dwelling, and never to enter it again without invitation. Return hence to your place of damnation, where the worm dieth not, and the fire is never quenched, and repent there the sin of pride that caused your eternal banishment from the sight of the Lord God!”
Morris dashed the contents of the glass—holy water, blessed by the Archbishop of El Paso—right into the demon’s snarling face, and cried, “Begone!”
With a scream of frustration and agony, the creature known as Dunjee disappeared.
Morris took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He carefully put the glass down, then pulled out his handkerchief to mop his face. His hands were trembling, but only a little.
He looked over at Trevor Stone, who had started to snore. He would never know what Morris had accomplished on his behalf, but that was all right. In the ongoing war that Morris fought, what mattered were the victories, not who received credit for them.
He sniffed the air, noting that the departing demon had left behind the odor characteristic of its kind.
He hoped the sulfuric scent of brimstone would be gone from his living room by morning.
After earning both Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees, Justin Gustainis was commissioned a Lieutenant in the U.S. Army. Following military service, he held a variety of jobs, before earning a PhD. Gustainis currently lives in Plattsburgh, New York where he is a Professor of Communication at Plattsburgh State University. Outside of his academic publications, he has authored three novels and two novellas of occult investigator Quincey Morris and his “consultant,” white witch Libby Chastain; three novels featuring Stan Markowski and the Scranton [PA] Police Department’s Occult Crimes Investigation Unit—the most recent is Known Devil—as well as a standalone novel, The Hades Project. He also edited Those Who Fight Monsters: Tales of Occult Detectives.
The Case: An FBI agent, with troubles of his own, needs help uncovering a treasonous leak of secrets to the Nazis. He calls on an old friend for assistance . . . and gets far more than he bargained for.
Investigator: Jake Steuben, a former deputy sheriff whose family—including cousins Vic, Rosalie, and Olivia—is particularly talented and quite used to saving humankind.
SWING SHIFT
Dana Cameron
Jake Steuben knew it would be easy to find Harry amid the crowd at North Station. All he had to do was find the highest density of pretty girls; his friend would be within fifteen feet.
Sure enough, there he was, ten feet away from a group of secretaries by the newsstand, watching as they chattered about the stars on the cover of Life. Jake picked up his valise and edged his way through the crowd. He leaned over and whispered into Harry’s ear.
“If you get into trouble and you can’t get out, it’ll be because of a girl.”
“There are worse reasons.” Harry startled, his morose stare gone, and stood up to shake Jake’s hand. “Train was on time. Any trouble?”
“What trouble would there be? It was crowded but quiet; I stood in the vestibule most of the way.”
Harry looked askance. “No doubt the conductor made you stand out there—that’s the ugliest hat I’ve seen in quite some time, my friend.”
Jake took off his hat to look at it fondly. It was a little shiny, stretched, and the brim needed reblocking. “It’s just getting broken in.”
They walked out of the train station, past drunken sailors staggering to Scollay Square, then a few blocks to the Boston Common.
Harry said, “How’s the wife?”
“Sophia is fine, thanks. How’s the war effort in Washingt—?”
“And the baby’s doing well?”
Jake couldn’t help smiling. “Cutting his first tooth, so he’s a handful. Say, Harry, what is it you—?”
“Good, glad to hear it. And everyone in Salem?”
Jake looked around. There was no one to overhear their conversation, so why did Harry keep interrupting? Politeness was all well and good, but he had come to Boston on the double. “Real good,” he said slowly. “Thanks for asking.”
They settled on a bench on the Common. The leaves on the trees were starting to turn, and would soon fall, but for now, the sun was warm and high.
Harry looked around carefully, then sighed. He shoved his hat back, mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. He sat forward, clapped his hands together, but didn’t say anything.
Jake had had enough of waiting. “So, what’s the problem you couldn’t wire me about?”
Harry shifted uneasily. “I got a case I can’t crack. It’s a doozy. You’ve got a knack for getting into the tough ones, seeing angles I don’t.”
“Tell me.” They’d worked occasionally as deputies for the Essex County sheriff until Harry started with the Bureau, and Jake inherited his family’s farm near Salem.
Harry hesitated. “It’s not easy. You know I deal with . . . government secrets.”
“Are you sure you should tell me, then
?” Jake enjoyed the sun on his face. His feet ached inside his shoes. The grass of the Common looked inviting.
“It’s okay,” Harry said, a little impatiently. “I cleared it upstairs. And got you clearance, too.” He took a deep breath. “It’s one of the research facilities, over in Cambridge. There’s a bad leak. I can’t pin it down.”
“And what do you think I can do that the FBI can’t?”
“I . . . I think I’m too close to it. You’re outside.” Harry looked up. “Like I said, you see angles no one else would. Remember the Beverly Slasher, how you knew he was the guy who found the first body? I wouldn’t ask, but we got two strikes, two outs, bottom of the ninth. I don’t find a DiMaggio soon, it’s gonna be my fat in the fire.”
“Sure, Harry. You know, I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Thanks, Jake.” Harry smiled for the first time since Jake had gotten off the train, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The security is tight enough, I’ve been watching for weeks. I just don’t know how the information is getting out.”
“What do you think’s going on? They’ve somehow learned to walk through walls? Use magic to whisk the secrets away?”
“Stop razzin’ me, Jake.” Harry shook his head, dead serious. “You know the Krauts are involved with some pretty unsavory investigations into the paranokermal and mystical. The trips to Tibet, the archaeology, their obsession with skulls . . . don’t even joke about it. My boss, Mr. Roundtree, has stories that would curl your hair.” Harry shuddered. “Nope, I’m hoping like heck it’s good old human sneakiness and greed. I want you to get in there, see what I’m not seeing.”
Harry pulled an envelope out of his jacket and handed it to Jake. “Your credentials, the location of a boardinghouse, description of your job. And a new name; we’re not going to suddenly introduce a new guy with a German name. No offense.”
Jake nodded. “Where will I be, and what will I be doing?”
“Janitor at a computational research lab. We want someone who will blend in, who no one will take too seriously. It’s all in the file.” He stood up, began to pace. “I should get going.”
Weird Detectives Page 40
