by Lysa Daley
I waited until the next day to return to the Ironwood Building.
It was too dangerous to go downtown after nightfall. Once the sun vanished, they had a problem with ghouls and the occasional pack of zombies. The humans stayed away, not because they knew anything about the flesh eaters, but because they believed street gang activity was rampant in Downtown L.A.
The truth was the gangs were pretty much powerless. Sure, they controlled the traditional drug trade, but there were things a whole lot nastier (and more addictive) than traditional heroin and cocaine in this world.
If you were foolish enough to wander the streets of downtown after dark, you might discover the frightening truth about that part of the city. Unfortunately, you probably wouldn’t live to tell anyone about it.
At 9am sharp, I approached the same pixie receptionist behind the entryway desk. She gave me another gold coin, and this time, I wasn’t startled when the elevator descended into the basement.
In fact, as I exited the elevator car, I looked around and wondered if it seemed brighter and more cheerful than last time I was here.
I easily found my way to Mr. Stroud’s office, only to be met by a familiar face with a googly-eyed stare.
“Hey, Agatha,” I said, entering the outer office. “You work here too?”
“One day a week,” she answered continuing to type on an ancient typewriter. “Glad to see you took my advice.”
Even though I wasn’t sure I was glad I’d accepted this job, I nodded graciously. “Thanks for referring me.”
“Have a seat,” Agatha said, pushing up her thick eye glasses and smoothing down her dowdy dress. “Mr. Stroud is waiting on another agent to bring in a containment.”
“Okay, great,” I said, not sure what “a containment” meant. I turned toward a cushy leather couch that I swear wasn’t there when I walked in. Before I could sit down, a commotion erupted out in the direction of the elevators. Someone was swearing their head off.
A moment later, a tall man bearing a strong resemblance to G.I. Joe and wearing black from head to toe strode into the office carrying a bag. Whatever was making that noise was currently inside the large cloth sack. Angry cursing and filthy name calling came from whatever or whoever was inside, struggling to get free.
Agatha barely reacted. “Go in. He’s waiting for you.”
“Thanks, doll.” He winked and shook the bag. “Quiet down, you stinking gizmo, or I’ll feed you to the ogres.”
Whoever was in the bag momentarily quieted down.
G.I. Joe powered into Mr. Stroud’s office holding the bag in front of him the way you’d hold an angry cat. As he passed me, I sensed magic shimmering off of him like electricity. But I couldn’t tell if it was a light or dark energy. From the looks of him, it could’ve been either.
He disappeared inside Mr. Stroud's office, slamming the door behind him. Ten seconds later, there was a loud commotion as something crashed against the wall, then banged on the ceiling.
I looked at Agatha to see her reaction, but she calmly continued to type away like this was an everyday occurrence.
Maybe it was.
Suddenly the noise stopped, and everything went quiet.
A moment later, the door opened and G.I. Joe sauntered out, smiling and laughing with Mr. Stroud.
“There you go, old boy,” Stroud said, handing him a thick envelope that looked like money. “You're always one for the tough jobs.”
“Damn right.” G.I. Joe shrugged it off. “Their type can't behave like that just because someone steals a pot of gold here or there. We all follow the same laws.”
Pot of gold? Was that a leprechaun inside that bag? He certainly fought like a drunken Irish sailor.
Mr. Stroud glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. “Back already, Miss McCray?”
“Yes.”
For the first time, G.I. Joe noticed that I was in the room too. Unfortunately, by the way he looked at me, I wished he hadn’t. Now I knew what the chickens in the hen house felt like when the fox was nearby.
“And who is this?” G.I. Joe asked.
“Stryker Smith, allow me to introduce you to Miss Lacey McCray.” Stroud gestured grandly towards me like he was proud of his new toy.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. McCray.” The man in black extended his hand, and I shook it.
Could this guy’s name actually be Stryker Smith? I mean, like, did his mother give him that name?
Stroud continued, “I sent her out after a half dragon's tooth that went missing from a prominent collection.”
“You sent a newbie after something like that?” Stryker reacted. “Are you crazy, Stroud? The kid is probably here to resign. To tell you where to stick it. And I wouldn't blame her. You could get her killed sending her after something like that. Who’s the suspected thief?”
Stroud grinned. “From what was recovered at the scene of the robbery, we suspect a troll.”
“A troll?” Stryker exclaimed, glancing at me. “That’s a suicide mission. You must be desperate for new seekers if you think this kid could handle something like that. Look at her. She clearly isn't trained in the art of recovering.”
At first I had been sort of pleased, and a little flattered, to hear Mr. Smith defending me, but now I was annoyed.
This sexist pig didn’t think I could do the job.
Stroud pivoted towards me with a half grin. “Well, Miss McCray, have you come to resign? To tell me to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine?”
I picked up my bag from where it sat on the couch. “Not exactly.” I fished out the small rectangular iron box that Mr. R lent me. Iron is good at keeping magic contained. I opened it, revealing the necklace. “I already found it.”
Stryker Smith looked flabbergasted.
A grin spread across Mr. Stroud’s face. “Would you look at that, Stryker? The young lady has succeeded in her quest. Have a seat in my office, Lacey. I'll be right with you, and we can settle up. I believe I do owe you quite a nice sum of money.”
I couldn’t help but cast a gleeful look towards G.I. Joe as the two men continued on to the elevator.
I also couldn't help but see Stroud hand this guy some sort of blue flyer. Stryker examined it, looked unimpressed, but still folded it in half and shoved it in his back pocket.
That must’ve been the next job Stroud wanted him to do. I wondered what it was. Would he offer it to me as well?
A moment later, Mr. Stroud returned. “Miss McCray, I knew you were an excellent candidate. I have very good instincts about this sort of thing. Why don't you come to my office, and I’ll write you a check.”
“Thank you, sir.” Following behind him, I said, “Do you mind if I ask you about this necklace?”
“What about it?”
“It's just that, um, I'm feeling some dark energy.”
“Oh I see.” He nodded as he pulled out a ledger. “And you're worried about the legality of our business? Fear not. We only work for the powers of good. I promise you the dragon’s tooth will be contained safely.”
“But dealing with enchanted items infused with dark magic isn’t illegal,” I insisted. “It’s also dangerous.”
Mr. Stroud ignored my comment as he wrote me a check. “I will be in touch if anything else appropriate comes up. That is, if you’re interested?”
Behind him, I saw a blue piece of paper tacked to a cork board. It looked like the same thing that Stryker guy had.
I pointed to it. “Is that for a job?”
He turned to see what I was pointing at. “That? That’s not for you.”
“May I ask why not?”
“It’s says ‘open bounty.’ Does that mean anyone can go after it?”
“Yes. It means whoever brings in the bounty first gets all the money. No questions asked,” he explained. “But, like I said, that job isn’t for you.”
“Why not?”
“The competition is already terribly fierce. There’s quite a bit of interest in this job.”
“Is that because it p
ays well?”
He looked at me sideways. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you now.” He paused and handed me my check made out to the sum of four thousand dollars. Incredible. I carefully slipped it into my bag. “Yes, it pays quite well. Ten thousand dollars, to be exact.”
I did my best not to react, but I knew my eyes bugged out slightly. With that much money, I could paid my tuition, my rent for several months, and have a good start on tuition for next semester.
“Does that mean I can or I can’t attempt to recover whatever it is?”
Mr. Stroud leaned back and tented his finger in front of him. “I suppose there’s no reason why you couldn’t give it a shot.”
“What exactly is the object you’re looking for?”
“Do you recall what Perseus wore when he collected the head of Medusa?”
I had to think back to my Greek mythology for a moment. “Wasn’t it the Helmet of Invisibility?”
“Very good. You do know your folklore. Perseus’ Helmet of Invisibility could grant—you guessed it—invisibility. It prevented Medusa’s petrifying gaze from affecting him when he went into battle.”
“Yes, but that’s a myth.”
“Is it?” Stroud arched an eyebrow. “Some believe that a dark wizard centuries ago found the helmet and recognized a business opportunity. He melted it down and divided the molten metal into twelve parts. He forged twelve new helmets each with enough of the metal to allow for temporary invisibility. Then he sold all twelve to the highest bidders.”
He picked up a file and pulled out a photograph of a crude-looking metal helmet.
“This is one of those twelve new helmets?” I asked.
He nodded. “It disappeared from its owner’s home over a month ago. The funny thing is there was no sign of a break in.”
“Which means it was probably someone the owner knew.”
“Exactly. An inside job. The owner, Mr. Mason, provided us with a list of employees, contractors, friends, and acquaintances who had recently been in the home.” Stroud handed me a copy of the blue flyer. “If you’re considering going after it, think about who on this list would need something like invisibility. Bank robber, cat burglar, peeping Tom.”
“Thank you, sir.” I slipped the flyer into my bag next to my check.
“But a word of caution — our very best seeker agents have been unsuccessful in trying to track down the helmet, and it’s been several weeks. Whoever took it really doesn’t want to be found.”
I nodded. “Can’t hurt to give it a shot.”
“Of course not.” He smiled politely, but I could see he didn’t think I would have much luck.
I stood and turned toward the door.
“By the way, how is that wand I lent you working?”
“Fine.” I lied.
“Good.” Then in a solemn voice, he added, “Make sure you always keep it with you on a job.”
Chapter Eight
My landlord, Mr. Gulch, lived in the small efficiency apartment at the back of my building.
I always wondered why he lived in what most people would consider to be the least desirable apartment in the building. It may not have been the smallest, but it had a terrible location, backed into a corner facing both the noisy street and the garbage bins in the alley. Not only was it loud back there, it also stank.
With $1500 cash placed in an envelope I got at the bank after I cashed Mr. Stroud’s check, I knocked on my landlord’s door.
Getting one debt crossed off my list would make me happy. After that, I just needed to scrounge up the rest of the money for tuition. And now that I had a lead on the job retrieving the Helmet of Invisibility, I felt more hopeful.
Mr. Gulch cracked open his front door, allowing a haze of green smoke to waft out. His droopy eyes fluttered like I’d woken him. He frowned.
“Hey, Mr. Gulch. Sorry to disturb you.” I handed the envelope over. “I apologize for being late on the rent. This has all been a big, crazy mix up.”
“Uh huh…” His blood shot eyes flicked up at me momentarily as he snatched the envelope out of my hand and counted the cash.
I took a step back to get away from the rolling smoke. It had the unmistakable scent of magical marijuana - legal only in California. A crisp pine scent mixed with fragrant poppies. Highly addictive.
Or so I’d been told.
I wasn’t dumb enough to dabble in something like that. Magical marijuana was three times more potent than the regular stuff and had been designed to cure what ailed you. Or so the dispensaries said.
In the last decade, a whole class of hedge witches became wealthy beyond their wildest dreams by enchanting and selling this magical marijuana. How exactly it was produced remained a bit of a mystery. Something about enchanted soil that's watered with the botanical potions in order to transform regular pot into this super sparkly stuff.
Still, if ever there was a walking billboard against smoking it, Mr. Gulch was it.
In all the time I’d known him, all he ever did was lay on his couch and watch baseball. Even when it wasn’t baseball season, he still watched recorded reruns over and over.
I’d heard from the girl that lived below me that he’d once been an administrator at the university. But because of his addiction, he now barely eeked out a living as a landlord.
“Hey! What's the idea?” He finished counting and looked irritated. “You can’t fool me. This is only one month rent.”
“I’m not trying to fool you, Mr. Gulch,” I said, confused. “My rent is $1500. And that’s what I gave you.”
“You owe me $4500,” he slurred. “This only catches you up on one month. You’re still two months behind.”
“Wait, what?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Two months? You mean my rent hasn’t been paid for three months?”
“Duh?” he said, like I was a total idiot. “I’ve been trying to contact your father for like… a long time.”
“You spoke to my father?” I asked hopefully. I was getting more and more worried about my dad and his safety. Something definitely wasn’t right.
“I got an email claiming that the funds would be sent immediately. But did they ever show up after that check bounced? Nope. They never arrived,” he replied, tugging at his sloppy Dodgers T-shirt.
“Were those emails from my father or someone in his office?”
“Listen, Lacey, you seem like a good kid. And you've been a decent tenant.” He rubbed the top of his head, and I could tell he was uncomfortable being forced to be the bad guy. “But at this point, it doesn’t matter to me who the email came from. I need my money.”
He clearly wasn’t going to help solve the mystery of my missing father.
“Mr. Gulch,” I began, trying to stay calm. “That's another three thousand dollars. Why didn't somebody tell me that I was behind on my rent sooner?”
“I thought you knew. Your little communication issue with your pops ain't my problem. With the new semester starting, I'm going to need to fill your apartment sooner rather than later if you’re moving out.”
“I’m not moving out. I’ll get the money. I promise. I just need a little more time.”
“You have forty-eight hours.” He spun around and nearly lost his balance slamming the door in my face.
I managed to hold it together and not burst into tears as I walked back to my apartment. Two undergrads who lived across the courtyard waved as they headed down the steps, but other than that I didn’t see anyone.
As soon as I closed my front door, I sank down to the little patch of entryway tile and started to cry.
How could I have not known that my rent hadn’t been paid for three months? Where was my father? And what was going on with his office? I was never going to be able to catch up.
It was obviously much worse that I had originally thought. My dad wouldn’t just leave me in the lurch like this no matter how busy he was chasing dragons. Something had to be very, very wrong.
A half hour later, I had run out of tears. A
s I saw it, I only had two choices — give up or find the Helmet of Perseus and collect that reward.
I wasn’t ready to give up yet. Not without a fight.
The only information I had to work with was what Mr. Stroud had given me. I pulled out the two whole pieces of paper. That’s it.
The first document was an appraisal from a bank for the helmet. The second piece of paper was a photocopy of a handwritten list of the household staff, including cell phone numbers and addresses. It read like something out of Victorian England, listing a butler, cook, housekeeper, scullery maid, two gardeners, and another dozen random employees.
Sitting at my little kitchen table, I took a sip of lavender tea. Was this the only thing the other agents were given as well? Or did they get more information than a newbie?
I hopped on my laptop and did a little independent research. From an article on a small art website, I tracked the sale of the helmet back to an auction house in Beverly Hills, owned by an art dealer named Jorge Reslan.
Apparently, Mr. Reslan frequently helped the Mason family acquire pieces of their collection. However, there were some rumors that perhaps Mr. Reslan’s methods of “acquiring” art pieces may not have always been exactly legal.
Did that information have anything to do with the disappearance of the helmet? Maybe. Maybe not.
Rereading the list of employees, there was really only one logical place to start.
Maybe the butler did it.
It wasn’t far from my apartment up to the Mason’s home in the hills of Bel Air.
Crossing Sunset Blvd, heading north into the hills, brought you into a totally different world. This was primo real estate. The rarified air of the rich and famous. A starter house in this neighborhood would cost you a million bucks.
Winding my way up the curvy streets, past immaculate landscaping and iron gates that cost more than my Honda, it was rare to be able to see the houses from the street. They were all tucked safely away behind ornate walls and imposing security gates.
Still, I managed to get a glimpse of a couple houses that were larger than some of the buildings on the UCLA campus.
The Mason's house sat on an impressive parcel of land near the top of the mountain. I parked on the street and wandered over to a call box perched next to a tall iron Italianate gate.
