Sucker (Para-noir-mal Detectives Book 1)

by Mark Lingane

  I picked up the receiver. "Yeah."

  "Hey, boyo, I got a report here says you were at 667 Templeton."

  Watcher. Alarm bells rang in my head. This was one yellow brick road I had to tread down carefully.

  "Thought I'd visit the place and see what all the commotion was about."

  "I didn't recommend it as a vacation destination. What was your reason for being in the area?"

  "A client asked me."

  I glanced out through the blinds to the street below. Someone was standing by the corner phone box. I squinted but couldn't make out much beyond the brown clothes the person was wearing. A diesel dimbox pulled up at the curb and a woman stepped out carrying several boxes.

  "Did your sneaking ways find anything?" Watcher said.

  "Nothing but blind neighbors," I muttered.

  "Do you know anything about the landlord, this Phoenix guy?" There was a hint of inquisition in Watcher's line, like he was being force fed the question.

  "Not much. He runs fast."

  "No mistake there." He let out a light chuckle. "I've done my fair share of chasing the madman."

  "Why are you calling?"

  "To see if you know anything."

  "You guys don't use PIs."

  "Times are changing, my friend. We're looking for a competitive edge."

  "Against who?" I hung up and grimaced at the receiver.

  I glanced back out the window. The person at the phone box hailed a diesel dimbox and kicked off the curb.

  Despite what Watcher had said, I knew that nothing ever changed with those bureaucratic blimps in case they lost their pensions and ancillary benefits. He was sniffing around, after something. Something he thought only I knew. If only I knew.

  I left the office, slamming the door behind me.

  Angelina's little shop was quiet. I flicked aside the sign on the front. The door was unlocked, after I'd applied the Remington picklock. I opened it slowly, reached up and muffled the small bell. I stepped into the room.

  I had a quick look at some of the items on the shelves. Flipping over a small totem revealed the Sandleford Plastics Manufacturing Co. had made the item. The same went for the other artifacts on the shelves. Mystery by catalog. Or maybe just another woman with an illusion to peddle, a net to cast, a veil to drop, a trick to sell.

  I made my way through the small entrance at the back of the shop that was closed off by a couple of draping black curtains. Angelina was absorbed in grinding herbs or similar. She had a book open and appeared to be reading a recipe. She turned the page and read on, oblivious to the world beyond her table. There was a steaming cup beside her.

  "You know Hugh Jorgen."

  My voice caught her as she was lifting the cup to her mouth. She froze mid-raise. Her eyes darted from me to a gray metallic piece in the corner, too far to grab, and back to me.

  "I'm not sure how to answer that. Was it a question or an accusation?"

  "He had your number."

  She lowered the cup. She looked at me thoughtfully, not as a predator this time but as a witness. Then she made up her mind. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Don't lie to me." I stepped closer.

  She stood up with lightning speed and lunged for her contraband gun. I grabbed her wrist before she had it in her clutches. She struggled with surprising strength, trying to stamp down on my foot, but she was too slow and obvious.

  "Is this how you treat all your women? Rough them up then have your way with them?"

  I couldn't tell if it was an accusation or some deep-seated fantasy, but she was so tormented I wasn't about to play Russian roulette with a tank load of rattlesnakes as crazy as a month-old bolognaise.

  "I don't have any women." I pocketed the piece and let her go.

  She rubbed her wrist and gave me a dark look.

  "He left another number." I handed over the number I'd hastily scrawled down.

  "I have no idea what it is," she said, dismissing the paper.

  "Why did he call?"

  She let out a theatrical sigh, which fitted with her current behavior. "Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he wanted company, someone to while away the afternoon with."

  "You, of all people?"

  "You liked me, I seem to recall."

  "At gunpoint."

  "But it didn't stop you, did it? Maybe there is something between us. I find myself having funny thoughts when you're near me."

  She stepped in close and I could feel the heat of her mouth as she hovered in front of me, hardly an inch away. It wouldn't take much and we would be touching. I could also feel her hand making its way into my pocket, after the piece. I removed her hand.

  "That's nothing to do with me," I said.

  The slap left my ears ringing, but I'd had worse.

  "Did that hurt?" she whispered.

  I shrugged. "If you want."

  She brought around her other hand and opened it in front of me. Some of the ground herbs lay in her palm. She pursed her lips into a bright red O and blew. I coughed. My head spun and the whole world exited stage right. I took a couple of staggering steps, lunging out for the wall for support and missing. I collapsed to the floor and darkness closed over me.

  I came to and felt rope bonds holding me in place, the thin binding cutting into my chest. I couldn't tell how long I'd been out because the room was in near darkness, with complete separation from the outside. There could be an apocalypse going on, and no one would ever know in here. Cool and quiet.

  "Would you like a drink?" came Angelina's voice.

  "Yeah." It was probably still early in the morning, but when you're faced with the sheriff of Crazy Town, you generally ride along.

  "Are you a straight man, or do you like to mix it?"

  "Straight."

  "Of course. I bet you're as straight as they come."

  "There's easier ways of dating."

  She sat down on my lap, straddling me like a Clydesdale. She held the drink in front of me, twisting it, letting the minimal light bounce off the ice. Her fingers ran over my chest, tracing the outlines of my muscles. She'd swept back her cloak, revealing bare legs. I could see that the rest of her was also bare. She leaned forward, reveiling in the whole Lady Godiva act, and whispered in my ear.

  "I'm exhausted. So worn out. So very tired. It all has to end."

  Then she poured the drink over my chest. Nothing spoiled the mood faster than a wasted drink. I watched the liquid run off onto the floor and noticed the strange markings surrounding me. The familiar five-pointed star had been drawn around me, in white. It smelled suspiciously like raw garlic, but in the dark you can never be sure, which is why restaurants have their lights so dim.

  "Why did you do that?"

  "Sterilization," she hissed.

  Her face took on residency from a demented fairy. She raised a knife--I could only guess where she'd hidden it--and stabbed it into my chest. It was a shallow wound, but it still stung, especially when she twisted it. But I kept my nerve and stared straight back at her. She focused on the knife, extracting it and stepping up and away, balancing a few drops of blood on its tip.

  She ripped a dark sheet off a small plinth to my left. It held a small bowl suspended over a tiny burner. She shook the drops of blood into the bowl and fired up the burner. The smell of paraffin drifted around the room. She stared intently at the bowl. After a minute, it exploded and sent a small, green cloud into the air. The flickering flames cast an eerie light over her face; the green plume tinged her features witch color. A cackle would have fitted right in about now. She stood there looking slightly confused until the flames died down and then returned her focus to me.

  With an exaggerated air of theater, she lifted a large cleaver from a lower shelf on the pedestal. Her face was dark and distant. The chopper was heavy in her hand, and her arm flexed with the weight of it. At least it wasn't one of the red eighteen-inch blades, which meant she wasn't one of them. But that didn't mean she was right in the head.


  Her eyes sparkled in the light reflecting an unknown intent--at least unknown to me. Possibly it was just desire or ambition.

  Her gait was slow and steady, marching to some inner beat. Each slow step revealed a bare leg, smooth, silken and untouched, except for once. Then the fabric claimed it back into seclusion. Her ceremonial march led her around behind me.

  She took a deep breath. Letting out a guttural cry, she lifted the cleaver and brought it down.

  22

  Angelina brought down the great cleaver. The ropes severed and fell free. I snapped my wrists around in front and rubbed some life back into them. She knew how to tie a knot. I pitied her husband, if she ever found one, but I knew she'd at least keep him, with or without his consent.

  There was a click and the lights flickered into life, revealing the room to be a dissolute basement, somewhere quiet where the debauchery could unwind. I glanced around the room, looking for potential weapons or general weirdness.

  "I'm sorry. I needed to be sure," Angelina said.

  "Why the lap dance?"

  "I have to be careful who I choose as a friend. Make sure they're clean."

  "Can I have my shirt back?"

  She stood stock-still in front of me with various bits of her body peeking out from underneath her cloak. "Eventually," she said.

  I could feel her eyes crawling down my body. She was as highly charged as a penthouse on the bay.

  I nodded toward the burner and bowl on the pedestal. "What's with the mini barbecue?"

  She glanced over, seemingly reluctant to withdraw her gaze from my torso. She had to stop cutting herself a piece of cake, put on the brooksy, and get herself a goof.

  "It was a test. If you were one of them, it would've burned red. Their mutated blood does something to the garlic."

  "So green means I'm okay?"

  "Normal people have no effect. All you end up with is cooked garlic. Green's a new one on me. But it wasn't red so don't have to cut your head off. Not yet, anyway."

  I stood up and flexed my shoulders. It was good to get some movement back into them again. I cast the question out quick to slide in under her defenses. "You heard of a rood?"

  Her eyes widened, like she'd been busted doing something indiscreet.

  "Want to tell me?" I said, after waiting in vain for an answer.

  She let out a semi-deranged giggle. "How can you not know what a rood is? Especially with those people flapping around."

  "Let's pretend only you believe."

  She sighed and packed away her utensils, but not the knife, I noticed, which she hid someplace about her person.

  "It's the crucifix. Born from Adam's mouth. It's an old English word from the Middle Ages. It signifies the True Cross, the actual wooden cross used in Christ's crucifixion. But phylogenetics isn't my strength."

  After a few moments of silence she got the message.

  "The seed? From the tree of knowledge of good and evil?" She waved her hands around. "Adam and Eve got kicked out of Eden for messing with the tree. Everyone knows that story. Adam starts to die, being about a hundred and thirty years old, so he sends his third son, Seth, back to the Garden of Eden to get some of the juice of life, or whatever it was called. So much has been lost in translation. Seth's refused entry by an angel standing guard. The angel gives him a seed from the tree, saying it'll ease his passing. Place it in his mouth and all will be okay. On the way back Seth's attacked so he hides the seed in his mouth, but the seed makes people forget. As long as it's in your body, you can't remember. So he forgets what he's doing, gets lost in the desert, collapses and vomits up the seed. Then he remembers, so he runs back to Adam, who's now dead. He buries Adam with the seed under his tongue.

  "Seth goes off and does more biblical stuff. A tree grows where Adam's buried on top of a hill. Jesus turns up, annoys the government, and is sentenced to crucifixion. They cut down the tree and make the rood from it. Then they nail him to it and raise him up so all can see. We all know what happened after that but no one knows what happened to the rood. Some believe it was fashioned into a weapon too powerful for mere mortals. Some believe the Templars took it and hid it deep in some dark cave. But then some people will say anything if you give them the right drugs and stick a bag over their head."

  "Where is it?"

  She shrugged. "It could be anywhere in the world."

  "I think Jorgen had it."

  "That man? Then we're all doomed. How did he get it?"

  "He stole it."

  "That makes sense."

  "He called you."

  "Yes, so? He probably wanted to get into my panties, trying to impress me with his large pole."

  At this juncture, with our brief shared history, that didn't seem like an impossible task. Given the opportunity to meet the man with the large pole, she might've been eager. In which case he would have been the prey. But she could play the desperate-damsel card if it kept her talking.

  "He blabbed on about how it was going to make him rich. His mouth was having a party, but his brain lost the invitation."

  I picked up one of her precast relics and pushed it at her. "Is this real?"

  "No."

  I nodded. "How much if it was?"

  "Several hundred thousand credits."

  I picked up the one next to it. "And this?"

  "About the same, but slightly less due to the regressive cultural appreciation."

  I replaced it, wiping my finger along the shelf. It left a small trail in the light dust. Without looking back at her, I asked, "How much is a rood?"

  "It's priceless. How much is the Ark of the Covenant? Or the Cup of Christ? These things can't be measured in credit value."

  I turned to face her. "But they can."

  "No, they can't," she bridled.

  "Someone will always buy."

  "It's valuable. It's symbolic." The indignation was dripping off her.

  "And that's why he called."

  "What, over money? I can't believe that even a fool like Hugh Jorgen would be shallow enough to see it as just a pay packet. All the myths say it has immense, ancient powers. Maybe it controls people. You know how the Bible stories go. That seems more of a reason to me. Ultimate power."

  "They're all fairytales," I said.

  "Not all of them. Many are warnings. Terrible admonitions of what's to come if you don't heed the tales. It's one thing that can bring Armageddon."

  "The end of everything?"

  "No. The end of this." She threw her arms wide, indicating the room. "The end of us, civilization, people. It'll clear away the past so the next evolution can start. The vampires think they're the next step in evolution."

  She was skipping on the spot, so agitated and tense she was having trouble staying focused.

  I grabbed her and pulled her in close. She loosened like jelly in my arms. Her eyes fluttered and she pursed her lips. A small sigh left her mouth. As vulnerable and hungry as she was, she was still a good and innocent, lost woman looking for the wrong kind of man. Her cloak fell open and she crushed her naked body against me. Electricity flew back and forth between our bare skin. I thrust her away, her cloak spinning up and around. She stood like a rock with the cloak settling around her, her eyes on fire, and probably her body as well.

  "Get changed," I said. "You're going hunting."

  We cruised past Limbo's, hoping to scratch the California suite, but the police were there and their excessive demarcation identifiers left no way in. We watched them picking through the blue-plate take-outs and mugs of joe, joking with each other and not paying much attention to the world passing by.

  Angelina stood next to me. She was dressed in the upmarket fashion all the free-thinking women were wearing; tight leather clothing more in tune with flying a crop duster than shopping the strip. It almost looked like a uniform. She'd calmed down and was focused on the scene in front of us. With her obsession abated, now looked like a good time to bring up my morning interactions.

  "I've got people a
sking about you," I said. I didn't bother to look in her direction.

  She kept watching the slowhands straight ahead. "Who?"

  I shrugged. "Bird and Early." I furnished her with a description of the whacky pair.

  "I've never heard of them." Her response was measured and deliberate. "They could be using fake names."

  "They gave me a card." I withdrew it from my pocket.

  "That proves they must be real." She gave the card a dismissive glance and folded her arms.

  I placed the card back in my pocket. "You're wrapped up in this."

  "No more than you. Maybe even less when you look at the grand scheme."

  "Do you know why?"

  She gave an absent-minded shrug, still staring across the street. "I'd guess it's due to my specialist, expert knowledge. What did your visitors want?"

  "They think you have something. Stolen."

  She let out a small laugh. "Half the stuff I've got's fake. The other half's from my family and it's been with our name for generations. It's not the kind of thing you can fake. I wonder what they were really after."

  The police were arranged in a close-set pattern, the slowhands nearly bouncing off each other. I couldn't see Watcher.

  "How big's the rood?" I asked.

  "It's a staff. I'm guessing it's about four to six feet. And made of wood ..." Something had caught her eye.

  "Anything else?"

  "Hmm?" Her attention was elsewhere. "Like encrusted jewels? No. It was a big piece of wood that once had a man nailed to it. How decorative should something like that be?"

  "Things change over time."

  "Oddly enough, religious relics don't. Something to do with sanctity. You know what that means?"

  "You'd be surprised."

  "Talking about being surprised, do you notice anything about the entrance, besides all the fat cops?" She indicated the dance of indifference by the constabulary collection.