Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel

by James Hunter

  Though I like to keep my head down, make no mistake, I am the lion of the dive: at the end of the day everyone gets out of the way for me. I’m not bragging either, just the facts, ma’am. People subconsciously recognize power and danger when they see it, and those are things they avoid—an instinct left over from the survivalist-reptilian part of our brain.

  Tonight, however, I was going incognito. First, the subtle glamour on my jacket would make me more like a piece of furniture than a person—easy to ignore and fairly inoffensive. Second, I had taken the time to weave a complex illusion of spirit, fire, and air. The working was a veil, one which gave me the appearance of a rough and tumble old-timer with wrinkled skin, some bitchin’ scars, and a wispy white beard.

  Though Morse and his crew would surely be on the lookout for me, they’d never see through my conjured mask. The working had taken me half-an-hour of concerted effort to mold into place, and it took a good chunk of energy to maintain, but it was worth the effort. Instead of a lion, I was going disguised as a tired, old water buffalo—just another harmless herd animal, hardly worth a second glance.

  I steeled myself for whatever might come next, and went into The Full House.

  The fragrant haze of thick tobacco smoke—mingled with the underlying pungent scent of pot and stale beer—hit my nostrils. Pool and card tables filled most of the floor space, each illuminated in a small puddle of amber light which only served to emphasize the oceans of darkness between them. The men and women filling the joint were hard looking types: lots of leather, metal, tattoos, and beards. My God, but there were some truly magnificent beards.

  Shinedown’s acoustic version of “Simple Man” blared through the air. Great tune. For the first time since getting caught up in this shit, I felt good. Most of these people would probably kill me if they knew who I was, but in-spite of that, these people were my people. Fellow wanderers, gamblers, drunkards, ink-covered hard-cases. They were also more than those stereotypes, too. They were people, complex beings who were fathers and friends, wives and advocates, lovers and parents. Many of these people weren’t good people—probably gunrunners and drug dealers—but they were also more than the sum of their bad deeds, and I was in no position to start casting stones.

  I’d like to think I’m more than just my mistakes. It’s more complicated than that.

  I wandered over to the bar and ordered a drink while I eyed the room, taking in the proverbial lay-of-the-land. Most of the tables were full, but there was a game near the back with only four players and an open chair, which looked like an invitation to me. I sauntered over to the edge of the shallow pool of light dipping over the table, keeping myself in the shadows, keeping quiet while I eyed the game with serious intent. I watched the players for a time, nursing my drink, sizing up the competition. After a few hands, I knew I could play and win.

  “Mind if I buy in?” I asked to no one in particular. The loud and rowdy banter at the table ebbed to a standstill; four pairs of eyes held me in hard scrutiny.

  “Never seen you ‘round here before,” a grizzled man, with arms the size of small tree trunks, said after a few moments. “How’d you hear about this place?” The question seemed harmless, yet a wrong answer would likely bounce my ass right out the door—and that was the best case scenario.

  “Just passing through.” I shrugged. “Looking for a good poker game, heard from a friend that this place might offer a little action … so, you mind if I buy in or what?” There was a long tight pause, pregnant with possibility, as Tree-Trunk Arms decided my fate.

  “Ah, why the hell not,” he replied with a toothy grin, sporting a few gaps. “It’s a free country, old-timer. I’ll be glad to take your money. Name’s Uncle Frank, and we’re glad to have you, partner. Buy-in’s five hundred, the game is straight up Hold ‘Em. You still in?”

  “Call me Lucky,” I said, “and you better believe it, though I was hoping for something a little more expensive.” Tree-Trunk Arms laughed with a great belly rumble which shook his frame and the whole card table. One of his neatly piled chip stacks toppled lazily with a few soft clicks.

  “Well partner, let’s see how you do out here with us small timers—trust me, we’ll be more than pleased to take all you got.”

  I nodded, cracking a wide grin of my own, while I pulled out a chair and he dealt me a hand.

  And then I played.

  I played and played late into the night, hand after hand, tune after tune, letting nicotine and music wash over me. Cool beer in one hand and slightly worn and bent playing cards in the other. I let the game take me, knowing I needed to win, and win big, if I was going to get a shot at Morse. I played for fun, drinking a little too much and enjoying it, because I knew in my bones that I’d already won. I was having a lucky night, and not the way normal people have a lucky night. With me, and people like me, luck is a quantifiable thing.

  I would win because I always win when it comes to games of chance. No one knows why, but major practitioners fundamentally alter certain aspects of reality. Drawing in the Vis creates a sorta weak spot, which, in turn, creates a field of improbability, making things that wouldn’t normally happen much more likely. What it boils down to is this: most world class practitioners are lucky as shit, at least in the small things.

  This improbability field does have its limits—it’s kind of like a small magnet, its field of influence will only affect things of a relatively proportionate size. A small magnet isn’t gonna move a two-ton steel pipe, but it will pick up iron filings. Likewise, my improbability field isn’t going to let me win the lottery (that’s a very big field of influence), but it can alter small things like a throw of the dice, or a hand of cards.

  I absolutely wreak havoc on games of chance like craps, roulette, and, to a lesser extent, card games. I don’t get flushes, straights, or full houses every hand, but that’s not too far off the mark. And let me tell you, being able to rig games by means of extraordinary luck sure does pay the bills. I can take a grand down to Atlantic City or Vegas and in a weekend walk away with enough cash to get by for a year. In fact, that’s my business strategy: win big twice a year at different casinos, and whittle away the cash into several different banks accounts filed under my various aliases.

  And yes, having extraordinary luck also means my toast never lands butter side down, which is about as cool as sliced bread.

  It was ten to midnight and I was up by about five-grand when a man, who looked like the leather-clad offspring of a small rhinoceros and an Amazonian princess, approached me from the back.

  “Been awfully lucky tonight.” He crossed his heavily tattooed arms for effect. I shrugged my shoulders and sipped at my beer, feigning a total lack of care or interest.

  “Boss says that if you want to play for some real high stakes, you can join the game in back.”

  “Buy in?” I asked.

  “Just ‘bout what you got on the table …” I gave a nod, a small smile flicked across my lips. Finally snagged a ticket to the Big Show, a chance to see Gavin Morse—Gang Lord, thug, and employer to his own Rakshasa. I really do lead a blessed life. I always get to meet the most interesting people—people who are usually trying to kill me.

  Lucky indeed.

  EIGHT:

  The Big Show

  I found myself sitting across a premium, felt-covered table, staring down the man I’d come searching for. Gavin Morse was not what I had expected. I figured the Saints of Chaos would have been led by someone … well, more intimidating, more massive, more impressive somehow. Morse was a small, wiry guy—maybe 5’2” in boots, and 135 pounds soaking wet—though he boasted quite a collection of tattoos and scars across his arms, neck, and face. Lank, greasy, blond hair hung down to his shoulders, while a great beard, peppered with tinges of red, filled his face. I guess he looked pretty scary for being a card-carrying member of the Lollipop Guild.

  He and I were the only players, though three men—including rhino-man, who’d fetched me from the public bar—encircle
d the large wood-paneled room. I didn’t feel comfortable with so many armed men around me, particularly the two in my blind spot, but I couldn’t reasonably expect anything else. Gavin Morse may have been a small-timer in the grand scheme of things, but he was still plenty big enough to require some substantial protection.

  He was also apparently a smart bad guy. He may have been physically small, but he knew where he was weakest and had hired help appropriately. That’s the mark of a good leader: not someone who can do everything, but rather someone who knows what they can and cannot do, and surrounds themselves with competent professionals to fill in the gaps. In my estimation, Gavin Morse was such a man.

  So, there were lots of armed, professional looking bad guys which wasn’t great. On the plus side, the scotch was fantastic. Springbank, single malt, 100 proof.

  He dealt out the first hand, the whisk-whisk-whisk of laminated cards filled the air, and I let my tension and worry fade. What would be, would be.

  The play went back and forth, hand after hand, chips passing to and fro with some regularity, though they mostly ended up in my pile. We made inconsequential small talk as we played, insulated from the sound of the main bar. My guess was that the walls were soundproofed, making this exactly the kind of place for both private card games and friendly interrogations. You know, the kind of friendly interrogations involving handcuffs, baseball bats, and sharp objects. Overall, very encouraging.

  “So you’re Mr. Lazarus,” Morse said casually after half-an-hour of steady play. “You play like a fuckin’ pro and you’re lucky—good combo for guys like us.”

  Well, that sure as shit got my attention. Here I was under the assumption that I’d successfully infiltrated Morse’s criminal enterprise and he’d been wise to me the whole time. I don’t do Bond well, I tell you. I’m more the Captain Kirk trope—go in with my colors flying, punch the bad guy right in the kisser and never mind the consequences.

  “You’ve known this whole time?”

  “Hmm.” He smiled smugly and nodded. “My boys have been watching for that car of yours. It’s as flashy and over the top as a pimped out ice-cream truck. Easy to find. They picked you up hours before you ever got here—you can’t drive around in my territory and think it’ll slip my notice. Stupid … your disguise is good—got that going for you at least.”

  I let go of the weaves of my conjured mask, cutting off the energy supply, and letting the image dissipate. No point in wasting the effort. As the illusion disappeared, I heard the uneasy scuffle of nervous feet all around the room. These guys were probably new to the supernatural game, so seeing an entirely different person suddenly appear in the room would be an unpleasant shock. They didn’t immediately shoot me though, which meant they were a disciplined bunch. Morse’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, but then reverted to a business-as-usual glare. Damn, he was a cool character—I give credit where credit’s due.

  “Why not take a shot when you had the chance?” I asked, as I shuffled and reshuffled my stack of chips.

  “I still have a chance. I haven’t lost a thing. I got three straight-up killers in the room … I wanted to see your move, watch you play your hand. If you were tryin’ to kill me,” he shrugged, “this charade seems like a lot of work to go through.” He took a long slug of scotch. “I figured we could talk. Wager a little. If that doesn’t work out, I can still kill you here. Dissolve your body in the back room, and wash you right down the drain—I have a barrel full of industrial grade sulfuric acid and an extra-large Rubbermaid container. Won’t be much trouble.”

  “Isn’t that … inventive of you. Must be a real MacGyver fan.” I smirked even though I actually felt like vomiting. You don’t show fear to someone like Morse. Seriously though, how in the world did I end up sitting across a card table from a guy like this? What’ve I done to be on speaking terms with a guy who was sincerely considering washing me down the drain? Jeez, my life.

  “Joking won’t fix things.” Rage lurked under the surface of his words. “I suggest you start taking this shit serious before I decide to add a layer of red paint to the walls.” He pulled out a compact Ruger 9mm and set it nonchalantly on the table, safety off, barrel pointed in my direction. Guy was way too comfortable with a weapon.

  “Listen,” I said, letting a hard edge into my voice, “I didn’t perform those hits—I don’t care who your source is, they’re wrong.”

  He took another swig of his scotch, fingers beating out some unheard rhythm upon the tabletop. “I find that hard to swallow,” he said. “I got an insider on the force—”

  Of course he did, and I had a damn good guess who that insider was. “Wait, let me take a stab here,” I interrupted, “is it Detective Alan Harley with CGHD?” That gave him pause, though not much. Damn good poker face.

  “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “He’s informed for us before. Was working the case and came to me a couple of days ago—said this whole thing was a supernatural hit. Said he’d seen shit like this before. Gave me his word that there was reliable evidence implicating you—nothing to go to court with. Not with something like this—not that I’m the kind of guy who takes things to court anyways.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I said. “What evidence did he give you? What overwhelming proof? Wait, wait, let me guess, nothing. Probably fed you some line about shadowy ‘supernatural’ sources, right?”

  Morse sat motionless, the whirling buzz of on an overhead fan the only sound in the otherwise deathly quiet room.

  “What else did he tell you?” I asked. “Did he give you Yraeta’s name too? Did he say Yraeta was the one pulling all the string?”

  “Son of a bitch.” His tone was flat, mirthless, thoughtful. He pressed his lips together making a thin cut in his bearded face.

  “Who put you in touch with the Rakshasa?” I prodded.

  “The fucks’ a Rakshasa?” he asked.

  “The thing you hired to murder me in New Mexico—the crazy, hyena-faced baddy who pumped my hotel room full of machine gun rounds.”

  “I didn’t hire anything to kill you. I don’t contract out—not on something like this. I’m gonna be the one to put a bullet in the person responsible.”

  “Why was your number in the Rakshasa’s throw-away cell phone?” I asked, a little fire in my voice.

  “Got me. But I didn’t hire nothin’ to kill you.” I could tell he was on the level—he had no reason to lie. Son of a bitch, I’d been played. The Rakshasa must’ve been working for whoever was behind this whole clusterfuck. The crafty son of a bitch must’ve planted the disposable phone on purpose, knowing I’d go straight for Morse and either kill him or wind up dead myself. The Conjurer had done a bang-up frame job on me and had pulled the same trick with Morse. And I’d fallen for it hook-line-sinker like a giant moron.

  “I’m new to all this freaky supernatural shit, ya’ know?” Morse said, breaking my thought. “Two months ago I didn’t know your name. Didn’t know about demons—or whatever the fuck’s been ripping up my people. Two months ago, I was worried about the ATF intercepting a gun shipment or the Aryan Legion moving into my territory. Fuckin’ monsters skinning people? Families dead? No, this is all new ground … I didn’t know what to think. When Harley came to me I didn’t have any reason to doubt him.”

  The tat-tat-tat of Morse’s fingers was a little too loud.

  “Let’s say I believe you,” he continued. “Most of my guys know you came in here—if I let you walk, it’ll make me look weak, soft. My position’s not secure right now, not with the loss of so many of the crew. I look like I can’t protect what’s mine. If I let you go, it’ll send the wrong message.”

  “I can help you, Morse—I’m going to end this shit.” I looked him in the eyes. He glanced down at the table, unable to meet my gaze. I’m average in most ways, but not my eyes: faded and dusky blue-gray, sharp, searching, and too old for my complexion. Most folks unconsciously avoided my stare on instinct, the strangeness lurking there makes most folks uncomfortabl
e.

  “Look,” I continued, “someone’s obviously gone to a whole lot of trouble to put us at each other’s throats. We can work together here.”

  “We’re both gamblers,” he said, arching an eyebrow, “why don’t we play for it? You win, you live. Help me out. You lose, my boys shoot you dead.”

  Not exactly what I was hoping for. But better than nothing. I’d take that action, with my luck.

  “Deal the cards,” I said, gathering in energy, constructing a concussive wave of force for when things went bad, which I was sure they would.

  He dealt, quick, methodical, face up.

  He ended up with a pair of pocket aces. I got a 7 – 2 suited, almost the worst hand in poker. It’s endearingly called The Hammer, because getting this hand is the poker equivalent of getting slammed in the groin with a hammer. It sucks. A lot. The 7 – 2 split are the two lowest cards you can have which won’t make a straight—there’s four cards needed between 2 and 7. Even though my cards were suited spades, the chance of getting a flush was low, and even if I did, it would be the lowest possible flush. He, by contrast, had a pair of bullets looking at him, which is the best starting hand in hold ‘em. Statistically, pocket aces will win more than any other starting hand.

  Awesome. Good thing there wasn’t a lot riding on this.

  The grin on Morse’s face was about a mile wide. I wanted to punch him right in his overly confident and heavily bearded face. I restrained myself, if only barely.

  Stupid beard face.