Genie for Hire

by Neil Plakcy

  The deckhand continued to pull the rope in, but at a glacial pace, and someone on board yelled to him in bastard French. Then Laskin appeared at the railing, wearing a bright red windbreaker and a Marlins ball cap pulled low on his head. “What’s going on? Move your ass down there!”

  The man grunted. Biff focused as much of his power as he could muster on the rope, but it wasn’t enough; the man had a head start and he was able to lift the last coil off the cleat and heave the rope into the water. Another man on the boat began reeling it in.

  Biff took a deep breath as the stevedore walked down the dock to the stern line. He saw Farishta motioning to Raki, and the squirrel bounded across the wood, skipping past the man and scampering up the rope.

  She focused on the water as the engines roared to life, and a whirlpool rose, forcing the freighter back against the seawall. A hundred years before, Biff thought, Farishta would have been able to smash the boat into a million pieces. But he could see the way her powers were waning in the effort her actions cost her.

  The boat was too big to be turned easily, its engines too powerful to stop altogether. He watched as the cargo ship’s nose turned out into the river and the stern line snapped, twisting wildly and knocking the stevedore into the water.

  And then El Corazón de Managua began her slow, stately trip down the river and toward the open waters of Biscayne Bay.

  31 – Down The River, Slowly

  Farishta looked pale but angry in the sodium-vapor light streaming down from above the ship’s chandler. “They must be stopped!” she said. “My amulet! It must be giving its power to Laskin.”

  As Jimmy jumped out of his parked car and ran up to them, Biff slipped the lamp back into the backpack.

  “What’s going on?” the cop asked.

  “The boat’s leaving,” Biff said. “We tried to stop it but we couldn’t.”

  “Jesus Christ on a stick. Where the fuck is Hector with his search warrant?”

  He pulled out his cell phone. “What do you mean, snafus?” he said. “Either you’ve got the warrant or you don’t.” He listened. “By then, the boat should be at the Brickell Avenue bridge. Then they pick up speed and head on to open water.”

  He slammed the phone closed. “We’re fucked. He won’t have the warrant for another hour. The Coast Guard won’t do anything to stop the boat without a valid warrant. And once they hit the bay, they’ll pick up speed and hotfoot it to international waters.”

  “What if we can slow it down?” Farishta said.

  “How are you going to do that?” Jimmy asked.

  “I have my skills.”

  “Meet us at the Brickell Avenue bridge, Jimmy,” Biff said. He turned and ran for his car, Farishta behind him, the backpack bouncing on his shoulder. “Best place is going to be that bridge,” he said to her. “You can see down the river from there, and you’ll have a lot of water you can marshal.”

  When they jumped into the car, the small white butterfly followed them. “Not much room in this back seat,” Syl said, assuming human form as Biff turned the car on.

  “Is Laskin going to stay on the boat all the way to Nicaragua?” Farishta asked him.

  “As far as I can tell,” Syl said. “I wasn’t sure you knew Laskin was on the boat so Raki and I thought I’d better check in with you.”

  “He is on the boat, too, the squirrel?” Farishta asked.

  “Yeah, he’s doing what he can to create havoc in the engine room—scaring the sailors, tossing nuts and bolts around. What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay on him,” Biff said. “We’re going to try and stop the boat. If you can do anything…”

  “It’s a big ship, and I don’t know enough about mechanics to do anything by myself. But I’ll try to pull in help from some sylphs who work with engines. Maybe one of them will have an idea.”

  “If you can do anything, I’ll get you enough nectar for a whole hive of butterflies,” Biff said. “Is that the right term?”

  “Not really. Well, I’d better fly if I hope to get anything done.” He transformed, and Farishta lowered her window so he could flit away.

  Biff navigated the darkened riverfront neighborhood of empty buildings tainted by graffiti, swearing as he came to one-way streets going the wrong way. Farishta scratched her fingers angrily against the passenger door. “Can you not go any faster?”

  “Working on it.” They came to the broad one-way Southwest Eighth Street, also known as Calle Ocho, and picked up the pace, rushing down toward Brickell. A block from the bridge, Farishta channeled some of her anger into disintegrating the lock on the gate of a parking lot and Biff pulled the Mini Cooper inside. Then they raced to the bridge, the lamp inside the pack once again banging against Biff’s back.

  Biff noticed that Farishta could not run as quickly as she once had, and he worried about her ability to survive the massive energy boost she would have to summon. But he had his own problems. Could he gum up the machinery that opened the bridge? If it remained down, it was unlikely that El Corazón de Managua could pass beneath it. But he wasn’t sure he had that much power in him, especially after his failed attempts to delay the freighter from leaving. He already felt drained from that exertion, and worried that even with the lamp’s help he might not be able to manage.

  While Farishta slipped to the water’s edge, he clambered up the bridge, looking for sources of magical energy that he could pull in. The air buzzed around him as a steady stream of traffic passed along Brickell Avenue. To the north lay downtown Miami, to the south a palisade of glass office towers. He closed his eyes and concentrated, opening his third eye for sources of magic.

  Like the needle of a compass, he turned slowly toward a park on the south bank, where the river met the bay. That had to be Miami Circle Park, he thought. It was the only known evidence of a prehistoric permanent structure cut into the bedrock in the United States, and was considerably older than any other permanent settlement on the East Coast.

  He let his mind rove over the land, identifying the perfect circle that contained twenty-four basins cut into the limestone. It had once been a seat of great energy, a connection to the sun and the elemental earth. By focusing on each basin in turn, he could begin to draw some of the residual strength into himself.

  It felt like he was opening the drawers of an empty cabinet and filling them with the energy from the Circle. When one drawer could hold no more, he closed it and moved to another. The lamp burned with a low heat, absorbing energy itself.

  An ambulance sped by, siren wailing and lights flashing. Grumbling motorcycles alternated with low-slung muscle cars and family-sized SUVs. The biggest trucks made the bridge grating rumble. The air was oppressively hot and humid and smelled of motor oil and sewage. Biff ignored it all and focused on pulling in the power the native Tequestas had imbued in the circle.

  When he had filled himself and the lamp with as much outside energy as he could hold, he peered over the railing to see Farishta’s form by the riverbank. He sensed her pulling energy from the current. She looked up and called, “Bivas! It comes!”

  Farishta waved her arm toward the oncoming freighter. Then his cell phone rang.

  “Biff? Where are you?” Jimmy asked.

  “Middle of the bridge. Right below the column with the archer on top of it.” He looked at the circular stone column behind him, the “Pillar of History,” incised with intricate symbols detailing the flora and fauna of the region. It was topped by a seventeen-foot bronze statue of a Tequesta warrior and his family. He felt the strong connection between the warrior statue and the Miami Circle, and tried to channel that to his use as well.

  “Hector’s on a Coast Guard boat with the warrant,” Jimmy said. “But it’s going to be a lot easier to serve if we can keep the freighter from reaching open water.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  He disconnected the call and looked below. The freighter moved slowly down the river. Under all the other noise, he heard the cargo ship radio the b
ridge tender for an opening, and then saw the lights begin to flash.

  He focused his power, and that inside the lamp, on the arms that lowered to stop traffic. By channeling the energy from the bronze warrior and the Miami Circle, he could override the bridge tender’s command, and keep the arms up. The bridge couldn’t open as long as traffic continued to pass over it.

  Below him, he saw Farishta marshaling the water, creating first a small eddy, then a whirlpool, in front of El Corazón de Managua. The ship’s forward progress slowed, and Biff saw the captain in the wheelhouse, struggling to keep the big ship on target.

  A smoky smell rose from the cargo ship’s engine room. Biff wasn’t sure if that was from the stress on the engine, or from something either Raki or Syl was doing, but he hoped it continued. The freighter was so big and powerful it was tough for him and Farishta to control it for long.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a Coast Guard boat approaching across the bay with a lighthouse-sized searchlight on its prow. His keen eyesight enabled him to make out Hector Hernandez in a windbreaker, leaning forward into the spray.

  The wind picked up, blasting a mix of fresh and salt water into the air, and Biff was stung with a thousand tiny needles as he had been on the powerboat chasing Laskin. He felt his control over the bridge arms faltering as the pain seared through his body. The lamp was no help; he had channeled all its power to the bridge and there was nothing left to protect him. Eventually he had to let go, and the arms began to lower in front of the traffic.

  God bless Miami drivers, he thought, as he watched car after car swerve to get over the bridge before the arms lowered fully. He slumped against the stone column, his body shivering from the assault of the water. It was all he could do to stay attached to the bridge as the uprights rose.

  He was staring at the freighter when its engine exploded, in a shower of fireworks that would have put July fourth to shame. The thundering booms cracked windows on the hotel overlooking the river, and car alarms from the adjacent garage split the air. A geyser of water swelled up from the river and showered the bridge, Biff, and the cars waiting to cross.

  Angry red welts blossomed over every inch of his skin as the water drenched him and soaked through his clothing. He struggled to stay conscious, unable to do anything to heal himself. Though his hearing was super-sensitive, he was usually able to protect himself from loud noises, but in his weakened state the cacophony reverberated in his head and the dancing flames ahead of him seared at his retinas. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to see or hear again—or even if he could survive.

  As he clutched the lamp in one hand and the base of the Tequesta statue in the other, the fire sucked the humidity from the air and the heat seared his skin. Very slowly, he tapped into the statue’s energy and the magic line that connected it to the Miami Circle. The lamp felt tepid in his hand, warming in tiny increments as it replenished its own power.

  He raised himself so that he could look through the railing for Farishta, down at the water’s edge, but she was gone. Had the explosion knocked her out? She was a spirit of the water, but what if the fire had attacked her?

  Sparks ignited random bits of newspaper, soda cups and lunch wrappers along the waterfront walkway, starting tiny fires. A bum pushing a shopping cart careened down the sidewalk, leaving a trail of crushed soda cans in his wake.

  Traffic was backed up for blocks in each direction from the bridge, but the protective arms remained down. People waiting in cars jumped out with cell phone cameras in hand, taking pictures to post and tweet, ignoring the possibility that fiery debris could land on them.

  On the river itself, the eddying water calmed, and the sound of the cargo ship’s engine faded. Most of the car alarms had been silenced, though their noise had been replaced by the sounds of approaching sirens. Several of the containers had caught fire and the crew shouted and struggled to extinguish them. Slowly, El Corazón de Managua came to a stop in the river just inland from the bridge.

  Biff looked south toward Brickell Avenue and saw a solitary figure pull herself up onto the roadway. Farishta’s clothes were in tatters, her shoes were gone, and her hair looked like Medusa’s. But to him she had never been more lovely.

  He reached toward her, and she staggered forward, collapsing into his arms. They huddled against the base of the statue, the lamp between them, and watched the Coast Guard vessel zoom up to the freighter and then stop short, bobbing on the waves a hundred feet away, just out of range of the sparks.

  Together they heard Hector Hernandez address the ship with his bullhorn. “El Corazon de Managua. Prepare to be boarded.”

  “What about Raki?” Farishta whispered, her usually mellifluous voice hoarse. “Where is he?”

  “I’m worried about him, and Syl,” Biff said. “I hope they’re both safe.”

  The minutes ticked by. The men on board the boat got the flames under control, and the bridge arms began to rise. Biff continued to draw power from the Tequesta statue and the Miami Circle, healing the angry welts on his body and repairing the damage to his hearing and his sight. Gradually the lamp warmed as it replenished its own powers.

  Beside him, he could feel Farishta going through the same process, drawing her energy from the current below. He saw the color returning to her skin and felt her limbs, once light as air, begin to resume human weight.

  Traffic resumed on the bridge, though cars drove slowly to gape at the sight of the burning boat. Police cars and ambulances trapped in the traffic blasted their sirens and flashed their lights but made only slight progress.

  Jimmy appeared from the south side of the bridge, striding up the sidewalk to where they still remained on the pavement, backs against the statue. “There you are,” he said. “I couldn’t get through until traffic started to move again. Jesus, you both look like shit. You need an ambulance?” He pulled his radio out off his belt.

  “You are always so charming,” Farishta murmured, her hand clutching Biff’s arm.

  Biff shook his head. “We’ll be all right. Just give us time.”

  He looked at Farishta. Her face was smudged with coal dust, and her hair hung in limp, black strands. She could barely stand up—and that was something, because he knew that she was much more powerful than he was. But it seemed like he was the only thing keeping her from collapsing.

  Jimmy stepped away from them to communicate by radio with Hector. Biff could only hear him if he concentrated, but at least he could do that. Then Jimmy left them to help coordinate the emergency efforts in the area.

  Biff and Farishta managed to stand up and walk down off the bridge, collapsing on a bench at the water’s edge as a fireboat put out the flames on El Corazón de Managua. The police had broken through a gate on an empty lot at the river’s edge, and the barren plot swarmed with cop cars, uniforms, and the flashing lights of an EMT vehicle.

  From high above, apartment dwellers on balconies watched the action. Lights glowed through broken windows on the hotel on the opposite bank, and gauzy curtains fluttered out in the breeze. The arched bridge over I-95 hummed with traffic, and the multi-colored lights from the Metrorail bridge provided a constantly changing display.

  They watched as the freighter was towed to the shore, and Hector boarded it, holding his warrant. The smoke was acrid in the sky, and Farishta kept coughing. She didn’t seem to be recovering as quickly as Biff was, and he worried that the effort had been too much for her. Without the amulet, she might never recover.

  He kept his eye out for the squirrel or the butterfly, but didn’t see either one. Then a pair of Fire Rescue trucks pulled up, their headlights illuminating the shore.

  “Can you sense them?” Farishta asked. “Raki and Syl?”

  “I’m trying. But I’m just so worn down.” Even holding the lamp in his hands he didn’t feel as strong as he usually did.

  “What if they were killed in the explosion?”

  “You know sylphs are ephemeral,” Biff said. “They can live an hour, a day,
a year—or a hundred. As for Raki, I think squirrels are like cockroaches. You can’t kill them.”

  She pushed against him, and he felt how unusually dry her skin was. “That squirrel adores you.”

  “Really?”

  “As much as a creature with such a tiny brain can.”

  As they watched, two crews hurried onto the boat, and then Hector stepped off alone. Biff saw Jimmy approach him, and he left Farishta on the bench to join them.

  “What happened?” Jimmy asked.

  “Found Laskin’s body in the engine room,” Hector said. “A couple of the crew were injured, too.”

  Behind Hector, Biff spotted a small, smoke-stained squirrel struggling to maintain its balance as it climbed tentatively down the cable that connected the ship to the shore. A white butterfly fluttered above its head.

  Biff focused as much energy as he could on the squirrel, using his third eye to guide the little rodent safely to land. He left Hector and Jimmy and hurried to the water’s edge, where he scooped the dirty squirrel up and carried him to Farishta. The butterfly followed, flitting anxiously around Biff’s head.

  Biff handed Raki to Farishta, and the squirrel scampered up her arm to lick her face. She smiled wanly and petted his fur. Syl transformed into a human again, still immaculately dressed in white. But he looked gauzy, as if Biff could almost see right through him. “What happened?” Biff asked.

  “I couldn’t get hold of any of the other sylphs in time. Raki and I worked on the engine together. There was a crate of palm trees with their roots wrapped in burlap, and he channeled into it, and then brought me bits of dirt and stone. I used them to jam up the engine. We didn’t realize it was going to explode on us, though.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  “I think so,” Syl said. “Here come the other guys now.”

  As Biff looked up, a swirl of butterflies in a rainbow of black, green, blue and red descended on them like a tiny cyclone, swooping and diving around Syl. “I’d better go, but I’ll be in touch.” He leaned toward Farishta and touched her arm. “Can I help you heal?”