by Lyndon Hardy
“What are you doing now?” Thaling felt his irritation rise.
“Only trying to behave like you, Boss,” Littlebutt said. “How do you get both of your shoulders to rise at the same time, anyway? What is that called again?”
“It’s a shrug,” Thaling said. “Now, stop this blather and pay attention to my questions. We have never heard of such imps as gremlins on the world we come from. How come they are here and not there?”
“It’s the energy needed to bridge the gap between the realms, Boss. You have nothing that potent where you come from. The flames that open the connection between the realms for gremlins is powerful stuff — ionizing arcs that tear through the air.”
“So some wizard elsewhere controls them as I control you?”
“Well, they pretend to be controlled,” Littlebutt said.
“Only pretend? Then why do they come?”
“You see, Boss, size does matter in our realm. Size matters a lot. And these little guys get no respect there, none at all. They are happy to escape to wherever they can.”
Thaling did not say more. He thought he could hear something.
“I will push my sphere a tad upward and…” Littlebutt said. “Yep, here he is.”
Thaling straightened as tall as he could and squinted. An imp about a quarter the size of a rockbubbler hovered above him, his skin even more pockmarked and convoluted. Sparks jumped from his skin like tiny exploding fireworks and fizzled out in the air. A wicked smile stretched from ear to ear.
“I can’t make out anything the imp might be saying,” the magician complained.
“Of course not, Boss. Little body. Small vocal chords. Very high-pitched voice. Unless you have some sort of downshifting device, you won’t hear anything.”
“Then how do you — ”
“Sign language, Boss,” Littlebutt said. “Universal in our realm. Otherwise, it would be chaos there.” Littlebutt suddenly giggled. “Chaos, Boss, get it, chaos. A little more chaos in the realm of demons. Exactly what we need.”
“Let’s get started,” Thaling commanded. “Take this little imp to the alcove with the tracker. Get him to do whatever he has to do to connect the keypads and numerical displays to it. And do it with haste. I am getting a little worried the portal is only nearby one day in ten now — not every day.”
The Modern Woman
JAKE WAS stunned. What was it with this woman? Was she only a tease? No way could one win with a tease.
He stared at her intently, watching her enthusiasm seem to bubble almost like lava from a newly awakened volcano.
He shrugged. Arrange for a trip to New York, and then his ‘deed’ certainly would be done. Shangri-La! He had waited this long. Another few days would not matter.
“I don’t think this trader will level with you,” he said.
“Why not?” Briana asked.
“You need to appear as someone deserving of attention. A business suit, heels, makeup, the whole enchilada.”
“I do not mean to intrude,” Maurice chimed in. “Buddha says, ‘It is better to travel well than to arrive.’“
“That makes no sense at all,” Jake growled. “Do you have to have a quote for every situation, even when it does not quite fit?”
“Well, I am fudging a bit,” Maurice said. “Buddha, in fact, did not say that. But somehow it has crept into the standard list of his quotes.”
“So then, why did you — ” Jake began.
“I do not mean to pry, Briana,” Maurice continued. “But I wonder. Do you have valid identification? You will need that in order to get a boarding pass for the plane.”
Briana did not immediately answer. Her enthusiasm looked like it was starting to melt away. “Jake, I do not have enough money for all of the things you mentioned,” she said. “And Maurice, I suspect I do not have what you call identification either.”
Jake smiled. “If I were to bankroll you, would that be merely payment for favors to be received or instead would it count as a gift that — ”
“The real problem is the ID,” Maurice persisted. “A driver’s license is very hard to fake. More than a half-dozen security features.” He closed his eyes. “Perhaps an Indian tribal card would be easier to forge, but even so, the risk of being caught…”
“Maybe your visa,” Jake suggested. Maybe now he would find out where she was from.
Briana shook her head.
“We could travel by car,” Maurice said. “Do the driving in shifts.”
“From LA to New York, by car!” Jake shook his head. “That will take days. A whole week without Margo.” He pointed at Briana in frustration. “Another week waiting for this one to deliver.”
“Well, it would be with your Tesla,” Maurice said.
Jake considered for a moment. It would be a chance to see how the car performs outside of the LA crawl. He looked again at Briana and sighed. “Shangri- La! Shangri-La! Damn it, you better be worth it.”
Without another word, he went to his room, returned with an attaché case, and flipped it open. Inside were two dozen slits cut into foam. In each incision was a small plastic card.
“Gift cards,” Jake explained. “Every month, I use the allowance my old man sends me to buy them. The bank account goes to almost zero right away. I don’t trust the bastard. He probably has some way of draining it if he wanted. Anyway, I use these babies for whatever I want to buy.”
He began drawing cards out of the row in the middle. “Five hundred, a thousand, fifteen hundred, two, twenty-five, three,” he said. “Briana, that should be enough to doll you up. Maurice, you take her to one of the fancy stores and connect her with a sales associate. Get a suit for yourself for the trip as well.”
Jake leered at Briana. “And a bikini or two while you are at it.”
“What about you?” Maurice asked.
“I’m going to hit the waves,” Jake said. “Work off some of the frustration.”
LATER IN the day, Jake returned to the apartment and looked around. Maurice was in the living area seating on the floor with knees bent, hands palm upward, and eyes closed. A buzzing came from the bathroom.
“What’s the noise?” Jake asked. “Where’s Briana? I want to see what she bought.”
“In the bathroom,” Maurice said. “Shaving her legs.”
“Really?” Jake said. “I never imagined — ”
The buzzing stopped, and Briana exited the lavatory. She was wearing a casual dress with emerald green colors that accented her copper tresses.
She smiled and posed for Jake.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“I thought you were going to get a business suit,” Jake said.
“I did that, and had money left over, so I bought a few more things, too. The clerk was quite helpful. Taught me about makeup. Explained what the little tubes and bottles of color were for.” She blushed. “Also, I got what she called ‘unmentionables.’ I had no idea women on Eart… here had such colorful choices.”
“Great!” Jake said. “Now, model the bikinis.”
Briana’s face frosted over. “I did not buy such things,” she said. “That type of clothing should not be worn in public, revealing almost everything for any passing male to see.” She looked down toward the floor. “For me, the height of the hem on this dress is enough of a challenge to get comfortable with.”
Before Jake could respond, one of the windows facing the ocean shattered. A piece of paper wrapped around a stone crashed onto the floor. Maurice picked the missile up.
“It says, ‘We know where you live.’“
“Lemme see that,” Jake yanked the paper away. “Some of the surfers are territorial around here, but I’ve had no trouble with them before.”
“Look at the scrawl at the bottom,” Maurice said. “I recognize it. The Crimsons… the gang that threatened the temple master when you visited.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” Jake said. “My old man has some deep connections with the S
FPD. He’ll get a request relayed to look into this down here.”
“That will not accomplish anything.” Maurice shook his head. “Except for fuzzy descriptions, there would be nothing to go on.” He examined the note again. “Evidently, the hoodlums feel our interference needs to be repaid.”
“Ah, our trip?” Briana asked.
Jake marveled. She was like a bitch bulldog with a steak in her teeth and refusing to let go.
“Yeah, the trip,” he said. “Okay, so they found us. We’ll start now. Get it over with. Maybe by the time we get back, they will be concentrating on something else.”
He looked at Briana. “And maybe we will, too.”
No Luck Involved
THE ELEVATOR doors opened on the twenty-seventh floor. A receptionist sat behind a desk in the foyer. Corridors ran off in four directions, two on each side. The paneling: burnished walnut, the carpet plush and deep. The atmosphere: quiet, reserved, as if for an exclusive club.
Briana stepped forward, teetering on shoes that gave her little lateral support. She tugged at the hem of her suit jacket. The briefcase containing the heavy printout pulled to one side. Maurice flanked on the left, ready to offer a hand if there were a stumble. Jake glanced at her face. It was a tense mask. Even so, dressed up in green, hair curled into a sophisticated do, she was a stunning figure.
He was trying, he told himself. Except for a few leers and occasional remarks about bikinis and such that slipped out, his behavior had to have been tolerable. He had kept his hands to himself. Not a single remark about how much this was costing him, but then not a single thank you either.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist said, breaking through Jake’s reverie.
“The office of Mr. Emmertyn,” he responded.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Ah, yes. Yes, we do. Please show us which corridor — ”
“I will let him know you are here.” The receptionist indicated the seating area and then reached for her phone.
“No, wait,” Jake said. “It is a surprise, actually. It’s… it’s his birthday.”
The receptionist shook her head. “We hear stuff like that a lot around here. All sorts wanting to pitch insider information to the brokers. Like the other advisors, Mr. Emmertyn has strict orders not to be disturbed unless someone has an appointment.”
Jake reached into his wallet, withdrew a five hundred dollar gift card, and dropped it on the desk. He glanced again at Briana, but she did not react. He scowled at the receptionist. “Perhaps you might remember he told you we were coming.”
For an instant, the gatekeeper’s eyes widened. Then she scooped up the card and pointed to the corridor on the left behind her.
“Three offices down,” she mumbled and began busying herself with some papers on her desk.
Jake nodded, and the trio headed into the corridor. Soon, they were standing before a door bearing a placard reading ‘Frederick Emmertyn, High Yield Investments.’
The three entered a small anteroom furnished with two couches and a small, low table in between. A second door much like the first adorned the far wall; a third, smaller one was on the right. Briana’s heels clicked on a parquet floor that had replaced the carpeting down the long corridor. The overall effect magnified a dozen-fold that of the central reception area. It was as if there were a competition to see which could ooze the greater air of wealth and privilege.
Jake walked over to the door on the right and pulled it open. A heavy winter coat hanging on a hook swung into view. A clothes rod was dimly visible in the dark interior. “New York,” he said looking back at the other two. “Snowy winters.”
He ducked in his head. “And it looks like there is room for some storage off to the left.”
“Get out of there!” Briana commanded. “I want to talk to this man, not be thrown out before I can say a single word.”
Jake emerged and studied the decorations for a moment. “Look at that.” He pointed at one of the panels on the opposite sidewall. “Like something from your temple, Maurice.”
“Yes, what looks like a wheel from a large sailing ship is the eight spoked Dharmachakra,” Maurice said. “Each spoke represents one step along the Noble Eightfold Path. Next to it is the lotus flower, the symbol for purity. Emmertyn is a Buddhist.”
The big man swung his head around to study the wall with the closet. “And over here is… that image is not from Buddhism,” he said, puzzled. “It is Shiva, the Hindu god whose duty is to destroy all of the worlds at the end of creation. And next to him is the Ying-Yan of Taoism.”
Silently, Maurice resurveyed the decorations on the two walls and then spoke again.
“No, not a Buddhist. The occupant of this office is an eastern religion junkie! Or maybe his clientele is. People like that hop from one set of beliefs to the next. Searching for the quick fix. The simple prescription explaining everything.”
“Briana, are you sure?” Jake asked. “Sure this flake is the one you want to talk to?”
“The computer evidence was compelling.” Briana nodded. She approached the inner door and knocked crisply.
There was no immediate answer. She knocked again.
“A moment. Give me a moment,” a voice sounding drugged or only half-awake came from behind the door. There was some shuffling, and then the entry opened. Standing there was an elderly man, hair white and flowing. A straggly beard adorned his chin as if it were part of a costume poorly made. Granny glasses cocked to one side. His unkempt visage contrasted sharply with an expensive three-piece suit.
“You interrupted me while I was contemplating a trade,” Emmertyn growled. “You do not have an appointment. The receptionist should have not let you pass. Now, I will have nausea that might last for hours.”
“How are you so lucky?” Briana ignored the complaint.
Jake watched her serious expression. She reminded him of a runaway boulder crashing downhill. She was not going to be diverted.
Emmertyn’s expression changed from one of annoyance to that of a child whose hand had been caught in the cookie jar.
“Lu — luck?” he stammered. “No respectable broker deals in luck. It is by careful analysis that profits are made.”
“How is it you are able to buy and sell on intervals as short as five minutes and always be right?” Briana persisted. “How do you analyze things so quickly?”
She did not wait for an invitation and entered the inner office. The others followed. It was decorated in much the same way as the outer reception area, the walls filled with images of Shinto shrine gates, the god Ganesha, and half a dozen vajras. An uncluttered desk contained only a clock, a notepad and a small incense burner from which rose thin strands of smoke. A massive four-drawer safe stood to one side.
“Over sixty years we have worked together. He told me he would not tell,” the trader muttered as he shut the door behind them. He frowned for a second, and then, as if he were a drowning man grasping at a piece of driftwood, asked, “You are from the FBI, right?”
“Yes, the FBI,” Jake said quickly. He pointed to Briana’s briefcase. “Insider trading. We have the evidence right here. Show him, agent… ah, agent — ”
“The charm of prophecy,” Briana cut him off. “How did you come to know it? Did a client give it to you?”
“A charm? What do you mean, a charm? What are you talking about?” Emmertyn said.
“‘Thrice spoken, once fulfilled,’“ Briana said. “The Rule of Three — the fundamental law. Sorcery. Isn’t that what you are doing?”
Emmertyn staggered back against the desk front. “Yes, three times repeated,” he said quietly. He looked at Briana as if he had only seen her for the first time. “How do you know?”
“The how you have to worry about now is how to come up with — sixty years, was it? — sixty years of restitution that will be the basis for your fine. And not only the commissions but the base prices considered as well.”
“Sixty years!�
�� Emmertyn cried. “Even though each trade was small, the total would come to millions. I have not salted away anything like that.”
“Cooperate,” Jake commanded. “Tell us everything. If you do, then maybe something can be worked out.” He looked at Briana and smiled, hoping she noticed how clever he was being.
Emmertyn sighed deeply, walked around his desk, sat down, and then stared silently at one of the images on the wall to the right.
“Actually it is a relief,” he said at last. “After all these years.” He looked back at the trio and motioned for them to sit. “I only have a single client, and as of late, he ignores completely the advice I give him. There is no longer any pleasure there.”
“Did your client give you the charm?” Briana asked again.
“No, no, not my client,” Emmertyn said. “I have been careful from the very beginning. Only making small transactions. All of them going through many different intermediaries, so they do not attract attention.”
“The artwork on the walls?” Briana asked.
“I need it to help my mental imagery.”
“So, what’s your performance record?” Jake asked. “How can you possibly make a living with only one client and piddling returns?”
Emmertyn looked at the wall for a moment and then continued. “Ganesha has been kind. He cleared the obstacles, oh, so many times. They are much better than the averages — perhaps twenty percent a year more.”
“Twenty percent,” Jake said. “You mean if the return of the market in general is, say, six percent, yours is seven point two?”
“No, if the market rises six percent, then my client’s wealth increases by twenty-six. A doubling approximately every three years.”
“Then in sixty years, one dollar becomes a million!” Jake said. “The Rule of Seventy-two. One hundred bucks becomes one hundred million.”
“Yes, that is right,” Emmertyn said. “One has to focus on the ways of the kami. Use their power to part the veil between now and other tim — ”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Briana said. “How did you come to know the charm?”
