NO Quarter

by Robert Asprin

  I’m being hunted. I thought about rebuking myself for tipping my hand, for letting that slimy shit Dunk get wind of me, but I didn’t see the point. I hadn’t fucked up in any serious way. In fact, for an amateur, for a waiter playing at being a hunter and a vigilante, I’d done good enough to be proud. It was, of course, just a gosh-darned shame that nothing had come of it.

  As to how the Juggernaut—who I’d now seen for myself, and who looked more like a Ray Harryhausen special effects monstrosity than a human—had learned my name, I had no clue.

  Connect up Dunk and Juggernaut, as Maestro had said: How?

  Good fucking question.

  “Jesus wept.”

  I focused in on Maestro. Across from me his features—normally rigidly managed—had gone slack.

  “What’ve you got?” I asked. The Bear had turned to look.

  “I think ... I’ve got him.” Maestro drew himself together, and for once it was a visible process. His emotions were churning nearer the surface tonight than I had ever seen them do. “Dig this: Jugger—I’ve been hanging with him a couple of days now, right? We’re pals. He thinks so anyway. He’s told me a few times now about the assault that put him behind bars. He says he beat the piss out of some guy around New Year’s because the guy was ‘messing with his bitch’!” He caught himself as his voice rose, did a quick furtive look-around. No one but Padre seemed aware we were in the bar.

  The Bear nodded. “Right. His boy toy was hooked up with somebody else when he got back out. That’s what makes him so unpleasant to be ’round. One of the things, anyway.” He eyed Maestro closely. “You came reconnin’ me for intelligence ‘bout recent ex-cons. I told you all this the other night. You coulda just asked, y’know.”

  “I know. Didn’t want to go bringing in anybody unnecessarily.” Maestro was eager to get on with it. “Listen. What if Dunk is Jugger’s ‘bitch’?”

  That brought a heavy beat of silence to the table.

  “Bone, it was what Alex said.” He said to Bear, “A close friend of Bone and Sunshine—she suggested a few days ago that maybe the Juggernaut was bisexual. We were trying to link him up to Sunshine in some sort of love affair gone bad. Knowing Sunshine, it was the most workable theory.”

  I felt a far distant pang. The hurt was still there, waiting for me.

  “What if, though—like you said, Bear—the Jugger’s strictly into guys, and it’s Dunk who’s bisexual?” Maestro looked back at us expectantly.

  “Boy toy.” My face felt numb, but I felt my lips moving. “Boy toy ... hooked up with someone else ... maybe moved in with someone else. While Juggernaut was locked up. Moved in ... with Sunshine. Dunk was living with her.”

  “And Jugger’d gone in for an assault rap for poundin’ some guy who was messin’ with his boyfriend—and you think the boyfriend was this Dunk character?” The Bear tilted his bereted head.

  Dunk, bisexual? He would hardly be the only individual in the Quarter that swung both ways. And there was that little scene in Check Point’s rest room. And ...

  “Chanel,” I said suddenly. “Sunshine’s coworker. She knew Dunk. She kept referring to him as a ‘little faggot.’ I thought ... but—”

  Maestro’s palm slapped the table, jumping the ashtray. This time a head or two turned, saw nothing interesting in our booth, turned away.

  Maestro’s breathing got loud and even for a moment.

  “I’ve got him. We’ve got him. I really think we’ve got him.”

  I realized my palms were damp.

  “At the Stage Door,” Maestro said, “after that deal with Jo-Jo and the two girls, Jugger said, let me see ...” His eyes wandered up toward the ceiling. “Something like, ‘I wouldn’t take shit like that from any woman.’ Then it was, ‘The last bitch that got in my face didn’t walk away from it.’ Something very much like that. Jugger likes to talk about his old fights, and I’d pretty much tuned him out. I thought ... I thought ‘bitch’ meant one of his boyfriends. I wasn’t listening close. There’s only so much of his crap you can listen to.”

  The last bitch ...

  His eyes came down from the ceiling, met mine, and the moment went still.

  “He meant Sunshine.”

  It took me a few seconds to realize Maestro had said it, not me.

  There it was.

  “How should we confirm it?” the Bear asked quietly.

  * * *

  We were parked midway between Dauphine and Bourbon, Barracks Street laid out mostly quiet ahead. The interior of the Bear’s white-being-eaten-by-rust Impala smelled like cigarette smoke and old upholstery. I was in back, and we were all slung low in our seats, just dark, unmoving lumps to anybody passing. The Bear had produced a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment. They sat on the dash, which had lots of old-style dials and knobs. The car was a relic.

  An hour went by, then two, then three. By the time the sky started turning pale, we were fairly certain we’d struck out. Just before we decided to call it, Dunk showed up, coming up from Burgundy. He was alone. We waited until he let himself in.

  “Dunk must have gone over to Jugger’s place.” Maestro whispered. “And we don’t know where he lives.”

  I groaned. “Which means that we’re no closer to the end of this. We still can’t be sure of the connection, and they’re still hunting me.”

  We waited two or three minutes, then the Bear hit the ignition. We all needed to be somewhere where we could talk—all of us. Me, Maestro, Alex, the Bear, and even Padre. We had decisions and plans to make.

  And even though I despised the idea, Alex was going to get her date with Dunk.

  * * *

  Excerpt from Bone’s Movie Diary:

  The top 5 all-time great screen villains in descending order are as follows. 5) The shark in Jaws. Yes, that rubbery, often laughably fake-looking mechanical beastie that terrorizes first a New England beach town, then Richard Dreyfuss, Roy Scheider & Robert Shaw (brilliant) on a boat. Why? Because that shark is rarely seen, but is always there, hunting, mindless/cunning, hungry/murderous. Terrifying. 4) Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet. An obvious pick, & Hopper plays homicidal madman at the drop of a hat. So, why? As Frank Booth, Hopper is a sicko’s sicko—depraved, sadistic, drug-addicted. But he’s frightening in the role because all his degenerate emotions are there on his face for everyone to see. He hides nothing at all. He is nakedly insane & lethally dangerous. [Note: nothing else about this movie stands out. It’s dead in the water until Hopper shows up. David Lynch has done much better.] 3) The leader of the Blue Meanies in Yellow Submarine. A cartoon character? Why? Listen to that overstrung, quivery, edge-of-psychotic-episode voice—ranging from an eerily gentle cooing to seething shrieking. He so plainly enjoys being evil, is aware of his nature & revels in it. 2) Robert Mitchum in the original Cape Fear. (Some might argue for Mitchum in Night of the Hunter. Good picture, but he hams up his part.) In Cape Fear (don’t even get me started on Scorsese’s 1991 remake & Robert De Niro’s overwrought performance in taking on the Mitchum role) he’s an ex-con out for revenge against Gregory Peck, the lawyer who “betrayed” him. Why is Mitchum frightening? Because he’s like a force of nature. He can’t be reasoned with or bought off or made to show mercy. He’s like that schoolyard bully that’s going to pound you come recess, & there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, except fight back on his terms ... & the odds aren’t good. 1) ... drum roll ... Margaret Hamilton in Wizard of Oz. Why? Please. Is there any movie character more deliciously petrifying than the Wicked Witch of the West? You see this film as a kid, & it sticks with you for the rest of your life. That witchy cackle, the green skin, the pointed hat & nose ... chills, absolute chills.

  The next day I awoke early, well before my usual in-the-afternoon roll-out. Not surprising. My nerves are steadier than most, but I’m not immune to them.

  I headed out
into the unaccustomed glare and took a casual stroll along the streets surrounding the Stage Door. Everything looked clean. By which I mean no streets closed for some sewer or construction project hitherto unknown. That’s the kind of unexpected complication that can screw up a perfectly good setup job. From now until I decided the operation was a go or no go, we would all maintained full readiness. Once we knew for certain that our suspects were guilty—or innocent—one call would either put the plan in action, or call it off.

  Make no mistake in this. What I had in mind was nothing like a fair showdown. I had no intention of facing the Juggernaut in an “honorable” duel. I wanted better odds than that, much better. This wasn’t chivalry. This was a hit.

  I had a lot in my favor, not the least of which was that Jugger thought I was on his side. If Jugger proved to be guilty, I’d be happy to do a double-cross. Being Jugger’s “friend” these past couple of days had been a soiling experience. It would be gratifying to use that friendship as the means of his destruction.

  I was slated to meet Jugger at ten tonight at the Stage Door. But before that, Alex planned to use her invitation to meet with Dunk. Since Dunk knew Bone, but had never met me, I would be Alex’s back-up. None of this seemed to sit well with Bone, but he realized we had no better options. Alex and Bone seemed certain they could get Dunk to admit his relationship with Jugger. After that, Dunk was Bone’s project.

  Since I was out, I swung through a deli and bought a ham sandwich. Then I stopped by one of the Quarter’s New Age shops, one where I didn’t know the owners or any of the counter help, to buy a brand new deck of Waite tarot cards, probably the most commonly used deck today.

  “Are you Maestro?” the woman at the counter asked casually as she rang up my purchase.

  Her question stopped me in my tracks. I knew I had never been in her store before, and I had certainly never met her.

  “Why?”

  “Well, if you are him, I’m supposed to give you a message.” She blinked and gave me a big-eyed, questioning look.

  “Which is?” I still didn’t volunteer anything.

  “Which is that Mother Mystic needs to speak with you right away. She says it’s really important.”

  “So how did she know I would come here?” I felt very uncomfortable with the thought that my “anonymous” purchase could be tracked even before I made it.

  “She didn’t,” she said with a grin. “She’s good, but not that good. All of us—tarot readers, new age shops, occult stores, psychics—were asked to watch for you and give you the word if we saw you. It’s kind of a network we have.”

  It made sense. If the bartenders had their network, why not the new age folk as well? I looked at the cards I had just purchased, wondering if I should put them back and start over.

  As if reading my mind, the girl said, “All purchases are confidential. And I can never remember anybody who comes in my store.” She winked, bagged the cards and handed them to me. “Just in case it matters.”

  I left with the cards, wondering how psychic some of these folks really were. It didn’t take me long to duck up Bourbon to Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo. I found Mother Mystic there, in the back room, waiting for me.

  “Maestro! My message reached you.” She gestured for me to sit and gathered the large folds of her caftan into her lap.

  “It did.”

  “That person—the one I mentioned to you who wanted me to do black magic for him? He called again. He insists we do the ritual tonight. Demanded it. Tonight, or I might not make it to tomorrow. His language was foul, and he promised I would envy one of my chickens if I did not do as he wished.”

  Mystic leaned toward me. “I tried to discourage him. I told him that such a ritual is too risky and usually fails. When done wrong it can come back on you with horrible consequences. It will only work if it is done on the exact spot where someone has died a recent and violent death. I told him the loa need to drink the blood of such past violence for the power he requires. This is not true, of course,” she said and waved her hand dismissively, “but I think to myself, this will end it. I know of no such place in the Quarter.”

  She leaned back and sighed. “But it did not stop this man. He said to me ...” she dropped her voice low, mimicking a deep male baritone, “‘No problem. I have the perfect spot. Less than a week old, too.’ Then he ordered me to meet him there, tonight.”

  That was disturbing news. “Sounds like a real nut case, definitely someone you should avoid. So why are you telling me?”

  “Because his ‘perfect spot’ is on the north end of the Moonwalk.”

  I went cold.

  “Is that not where your friend died?”

  I nodded. Even I didn’t know the exact spot where Sunshine had died. Only the police would know that—and her murderer.

  “That is what I feared. How could he know that spot, unless he knew of your friend’s murder? That is why I sent for you.”

  How indeed. “Did you tell the cops?”

  Mother Mystic shrugged. “They will do nothing until there is proof. All I have is a voice on the phone. Until I meet him, there is no proof.”

  “Meet him!” I slapped the table. “You’re honestly not thinking of keeping this appointment?”

  She patted my hand, her eyes sad. “There is no choice in this for me. Last night, a voodoo doll from the Museum appeared on my door, pinned with an ice-pick. He knows where I live. He knows what I look like. I only know his voice. I have to face him. End this now.”

  “So you’re going to do his ritual?”

  “No. He wants someone to die, someone he cannot reach. I will die before I sully myself with such an abomination.” She made a hand gesture, a sign of protection, and her eyes sparkled with ferocity. “But I will not die helpless in the dark. I will make him face me, and make him face the wrath of the loa if he takes my life.”

  “When are you supposed to meet him?”

  “Around ten tonight.”

  Suddenly the evening was getting very complicated. I tried to talk Mystic out of going, pointed out the stupidity of meeting a man she already knew to be a psycho, and possibly a killer. But she proved determined. I almost told her about our plans, but stopped. Involving her would only endanger her further, and I had no proof that her psycho and our killer were linked. I wanted to promise her that I would protect her—that I would get this guy for her. But I knew I couldn’t make a promise I might not be able to keep.

  On the way out of the House of Voodoo, I noticed some very familiar necklaces hanging from the shelves. They looked exactly like the bird claw Jugger always wore around his neck.

  “Mystic, just out of curiosity, what kind of necklace is that?” I pointed to one of the claws.

  “Oh, those are dried chicken feet. They are considered good for luck and protection by those who follow vodun.”

  That solved the question of Jugger knowing anything about voodoo. The deck continued to stack against him. But I needed to be sure. I needed to see who came to the Moonwalk tonight. I was supposed to meet Jugger at the same time at the Stage Door. If he weren’t Mystic’s stalker, he would probably wait for me at the bar. Even if he were, it wouldn’t prove him guilty of the murder, but it would definitely prove he knew way too much to be a casual bystander.

  I took all my goodies home, ate my sandwich, and called the Bear and Bone to warn them of the latest developments. I wanted them ready if we needed to move tonight. I knew the Bear was reliable. I also knew he would have preferred more of a starring role in the operation. But, fact was, I had helped start this whole thing originally, along with Bone. It was basically our fight. I wouldn’t expose the Bear, who was my friend, to more danger than I could rightfully deal out to him. He was already out on a limb as it was.

  I told Bone that he would have to take over backup for Alex in order for me to
cover both the Moonwalk and the meet with Jugger. Since Dunk knew Bone by sight, this would be a challenge. He would have to stay low and take precautions. He agreed.

  Then I got down to work.

  First, I opened up the deck of tarot cards, spread them out, and, using a pair of tweezers, selected one and eased it into an envelope. The rest of the deck, along with the box and receipt, went into the trash for later disposal.

  Then I went once more to my bureau drawer and my knife collection.

  Selection didn’t take long this time, as I had already mentally reviewed my choices last night while I was waiting to fall asleep, and had decided what I wanted to use. There was an old straight razor I had picked up almost as a novelty item years ago at a flea market. The Solingen steel blade was too nicked and pitted to actually be used for shaving, but it would be just fine for my purpose. I had gotten it for less than five dollars. I also picked out my trusty Al Mar Quicksilver.

  I also fished out the oiled stones and the water stones and spent the next hour honing the blade to ... well, to a razor’s edge. The repetitious movements and sounds of steel against the stones were quite soothing. I devoted another half hour to practice, palming it out and opening it into the three preferred grips for using it. I had the moves cold after ten minutes, but kept it up for the full half hour just to be sure I could do it without thinking.

  It’s like riding a bike. You never completely forget.

  The practice also helped me focus. I wasn’t nervous, not in that normal, anxious, “Dear me” way that civilians get when they think the IRS is going to audit them, or their spouse is going to find out about that “someone else” they’re seeing on the side, or any of those nice, safe “terrors” that people face. I was preparing myself, on every level, for what might happen tonight.