by Kevin Wright
Just then, the prostrate Carlo did the dumbest thing he had done that night. He got up. He wasn’t aware he was doing it. In fact, he was still dazed, swaying to and fro, holding a bar stool for support. He did not see the little man charging towards him like a Kodiak bear descending upon a baby bunny.
“GRANDFATHER, STOP!” shouted a woman’s voice.
The kitchen doors burst open, and Lien flew from the kitchen, a look of consternation riveted to her face. She ran around the bar and wrenched the blade from the Gurkha’s gnarled hand, paused in mid-stroke, lovingly caressing Carlo’s thumping jugular vein.
Carlo was not breathing. Carlo was not moving. He was very, very still. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes.
“Get out of here.” Lien pointed to the front door. She glared at her grandfather. “Let him go, Grandfather!” She slapped the Gurkha’s hand. “I said, LET HIM GO!”
On rubber legs, Carlo finally fumbled out the door.
The old man glanced from the Gurkha to his granddaughter.
“May I have my kukri back, granddaughter?” the Gurkha asked after the jingle of the door bells had subsided.
“Only if you promise not to kill anyone with it, Grandfather.” Lien’s eyes shown as fierce as the Gurkha’s as she gripped the kukri.
“I…I would never hurt anyone, dearest granddaughter.” The Gurkha offered a wounded look.
Lien glared. “Fine. Here,” she offered the knife, “but, one more time and…”
With eyes as innocent and pure as a black mamba’s in a bird’s nest, he took the huge knife. Lovingly, he polished it with his sleeve, walked around the bar, and put it away. Lien walked back in the kitchen, tossing a towel over her shoulder as she went. The two men watched her go. She was as beautiful as they were not.
“That was close.” The old man fixed a chair.
“Yes.” The Gurkha grinned like a wicked boy. “If I kill another, she says she will take it away for good.”
“Things have gone well for you, Bahadur.”
“More well than for you, sadly, Elliot.”
“Elliot … Elliot Speares.” The old man nodded to himself. He seemed lost for a moment but returned quickly. “How is your wife?”
“My wife and daughter are upstairs. They both have taken ill. Lien, my granddaughter, works here. I have two sons, too. They live down the street. One owns a laundromat. The other, a shop. We have done well. I have checked in on you from time to time. I ensured a competent nurse saw to your care.”
“I thank you, my friend.”
“First thing tomorrow we will get you clothes. First thing tonight, we will get you clean,” the Gurkha said. “I feared this day would never come, or I would be dead before it did. It has been so long. There is much to do.”
“Yes.” Elliot glanced toward the front door for an instant. “Is it still here?”
“No, it is not.”
“Where—?”
“Safe. It is safe. It was drawing too much attention here. My family was in danger. Like a magnet, it draws evil. I am old now, and my sons, though hardy, are not hardy enough.”
“I am sorry it caused you trouble,” Elliot said. “If I can repay you…?”
“It is I who have tried to repay you, my brother. All those years.”
Elliot nodded.
“I gave it to Lord Brudnoy, many years ago, in exchange for a promise,” the Gurkha said. “He cannot use it, and he does not wish others to use it. And so it is safe.”
“Good … good, I thank you again,” Elliot said. “I’ll need to retrieve it, tonight.”
“Of course. Are you hungry?”
The old man looked around. “Why a Chinese restaurant?”
“My wife is Chinese. Besides, none of you people know the difference.”
* * * *
The cute little waitress walked away, long black hair whipping, and Peter’s eyes lingered on her. She shot him a quick smile before she walked through the double doors and into the kitchen. Damn. He smiled back and started to wink, but decided that cool people didn’t do that anymore, and even if they did, he couldn’t pull it off. In all, he looked like either he had something in his eye or he was experiencing some sort of mild, focal-eye seizure. This was ahead of the game, though, for him.
Their table was covered in various forms of Chinese food, most of it steaming, glistening.
“So what do we do?” Peter asked.
“No idea.” Carmine shoveled a forkful of fried rice into his mouth. “I never done this. Oracles? Might as well eat. Maybe something’ll happen.”
“You said you’ve been here before.” Peter bit the corner of a crab rangoon. His eyes lit up, “These are good. I’ve never had them before. Kind of scary looking.”
“Not as scary as Peking dumplings.” Carmine stabbed one with his knife and dropped it onto his plate. “Look like little alien babies.”
Peter frowned, “Look like alien something.”
Carmine ate the alien baby. “I come here all the time but just to eat, Pete, not to see into the future.”
“I wonder how it works, the oracle?” Peter looked around hopefully. “Do we go ask the jade dragon? Or is it someone who works here? Maybe a palm reader or something? The waitress, maybe?”
“Easy, kid, I know what you want the waitress to read. Oh, here she comes!”
Peter whipped around to look at the door, but no one was there.
Carmine grinned. “Got a girl, Pete?”
“I was seeing someone, Julie, but, we decided to, uh, take a break.”
“So, she dumped you.”
“No, she and I talked, and we, well she, I guess. Yeah, she dumped me.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the I-Ching?” Carmine sucked the teriyaki off a stick.
“Look, we didn’t get that far. Maybe third base…?”
“There’s no maybe-third base. No, the I-Ching, the oracle,” Carmine said, his mouth full. “It’s a divining tool, used by the Chinese for centuries. See, it’s based on the number eight. When you—”
“Okay, whatever. How do we find it, or use it?”
“I don’t know. Relax.”
“Maybe we should just ask the waitress?” Peter absently rubbed his shoulder.
“I know what you want to ask her.” Carmine smiled. “Excuse me, Miss, but, what would you prefer? My roses on your piano or your tulips on my organ?”
“Yeah, Carmine, that’s exactly it. You married?”
“Not anymore.”
“That’s a shock.” Peter nibbled a chicken wing. He just wasn’t hungry. “This is stupid. Maybe we should go ask the cops, that Winters guy.”
“Bad idea.”
“He knew something was up with my shoulder.”
“No doubt.”
“Maybe he could help.”
“Look, kid, I don’t trust him. He’s a cop, and I told you what the cops would do. Besides, Winters is … look, you better make sure he wants to be on your team before you ask him to play, or he’s liable to cut your head off.”
“Great analogy. Ever coach little league?”
Carmine let out a large belch. “Hooo! God bless me. No. Look, kid, like I said, best steer clear of all of them. Their agendas aren’t always the continuation of public safety. Most’re looking to make some easy cash, you know? And that’s what you are to them. Did I mention there’s a bounty on your head now? No? Well, there is.” Carmine pointed at him. “Cops in this town have too much fun on the job. Bunch of whackers. They all have your description by now and are looking. Probably be looking for me, too.”
“Jeeze, Carmine.” Peter’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, about all this. I mean, the cops and everything. Getting you involved. And I want to thank you for saving me back at the apartment. So, thanks.”
“And I was just starting to like you, kid,” Carmine said. “You don’t owe me an apology. I owe you one. Don’t worry about me and the cops, kid, they got nothing. At best, they pull me in for questioning. I
lie. They let me go.” He wiped his hands together. “Easy peasy.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay…” Peter said.
“Even so, we probably shouldn’t be seen together. I stick out like a sore thumb cause I’m so god damn sexy.” Carmine wiped orange sesame sauce from his chin with the back of his hand. “What we need to do is find you a place to stay. Then we find out where to go from there.”
“Okay.” Peter’s shoulder was starting to throb.
They ate, Carmine far more heartily than Peter, who barely touched his meal.
“You okay, Pete?” Carmine asked, his fork poised before his mouth. “Not hungry, huh? How’s the shoulder? Itchy?”
Peter just shrugged and grunted, rubbing his shoulder harder. Then he rolled up his sleeve as high as it would go. “Holy Shit!”
It was as though a great black cloud were growing just beneath his skin, from the elbow up. Streaks of gray lightning shot from the cloud down his arm, pulsating with each beat of his now-rapid heart.
The waitress came back with a tray. Peter quickly shoved his shoulder and arm under the table.
“Hey, Pete, getting a little frisky, eh?” A look of mock-ecstasy suffused Carmine’s face as he started banging the table from beneath with his knee, the plates of food jumping. “OOOh, that’s the spot. A little to the left!”
The cute waitress raised one slim eyebrow, placed her tray down and, in a flash of long black hair, bolted. A rumbling tray of pineapple chunks and three fortune cookies were all that was left of her.
“Thanks for that,” Peter said.
“Anytime.”
“Bite me.”
“You’re the freaking vampire.” Carmine skewered a chunk of pineapple with a toothpick. He ate it; then he ate several more; then he ate the rest.
Peter just grumbled, rolling down his sleeve.
“Look, Pete,” Carmine said, “we’re going to fix this, okay? Here, can you still feel your fingers?” Carmine took Peter’s hand in his and examined it on the table. It still looked normal. He took his pulse.
“Yeah, I can feel them fine. It’s just my shoulder to my elbow. Throbbing. My forearm feels, tingly, I guess.” Peter looked up just as the waitress came back, saw them holding hands, dropped the check, blinked, and disappeared.
Peter opened his mouth to say something, but then he just hung his head.
Carmine laughed. “Look, Pete, I don’t think she’s interested. Probably thinks you’re my bitch.”
Peter sneered, but finally gave in and started laughing. “You’d be my bitch, you fat bastard.”
They laughed for a while.
“So, which one you want?” Carmine glared like a hungry leopard at the pack of fortune cookies, stalking them, trying to find the weakest one. He pounced, scooped one up, cracked it open, popped the halves in his mouth, and held up his fortune. “Uhhg. I hate these. Tell you something you already know, and it’s never a fortune.” Carmine read it out loud. “Lose some weight, it says.
“Come on! Look at me.” He grabbed a roll of fat on his stomach and shook it. “That’s not a fortune, not to mention, it’s a pretty poor marketing device for a restaurant. If I went on a diet, this place’d go under.”
Peter smiled and then cracked his open. He read his fortune. “Follow the path of the samurai.” He placed it down. “What do you think that means?”
Carmine frowned. “Jesus, I don’t know, Pete. Samurai aren’t even Chinese; they’re Japanese. There’s the Street Samurai, though, a gang. Cyberpunk fans, apparently. Whoever’s making these fortunes don’t know shit.”
In that instant, the doors to the kitchen burst open and steam poured out. From within the dense cloud of white strode a figure, seemingly in slow motion. He was tough to make out, a large man. Upon his wide shoulders was a white kimono and his sandal-shod feet clacked as they struck the floor. Upon his brow was a white headband. As he rounded a booth, and the double doors swung closed, Peter could make out, held smooth and firm within thick, callused hands, a katana, cold, sleek. The man approached, emerging from the cloud as though a smoldering god of Mount Olympus, or something.
“The samurai…” Carmine and Peter said together, both rising to their feet.
Their looks of wonder suddenly changed from disbelief to disappointment as the cloud of steam dissipated and the tall old man approached. It wasn’t a kimono; it was a backward hospital johnny. And they weren’t sandals; they were powder-blue rubber flip-flops. And it wasn’t a katana blade; it was a broom, an old, bent broom. And the man wasn’t old; he was very old. Probably, he always walked in arthritic slow motion.
“Hello,” the old man said, uncomfortably, nodding curtly. Then he began to sweep the floor. The bristles on the broom snapped cleanly with each flick of his wrist as he quickly formed a pile. The old man’s stomach growled like a polar bear.
“You hungry?” Carmine asked.
The man raised his hand and shook his head as his stomach growled again.
“Here.” Carmine tossed the man a fortune cookie. The man caught it as though he were expecting a cookie to be hurled at his head.
“Thank you,” said the old man.
“If you want any more, we haven’t touched much,” Carmine said. “Well, Pete here hasn’t touched much. And I’m trying to watch my figure.”
“Yeah, watch it explode,” Peter muttered.
“No, thank you,” said the old man.
The cookie cracked in the big man’s hands. He stopped, turned.
“Do you fellows know which one is the Joyce Bridge?” he asked. Absently, he placed half the broken cookie in his mouth and crunched down, pulled his fortune out, and ate the other half. “I’ve been … I’m new in town.”
“Me, too,” said Peter.
“Hey, what’s your cookie say?” asked Carmine.
The old man shrugged, “I don’t read them.”
“Ah, well, sir, actually. What’s your name?” Carmine asked.
“Elliot.”
“Well, Elliot, I’m Carmine.” He held his hand out and shook Elliot’s. “And this is Peter.”
“Hi.” Peter shook the old man’s hand, glancing sidewise at Carmine. “You look familiar, sir.”
“I doubt it,” Elliot said.
“Elliot,” Carmine stood, “Peter here, is well acquainted with the Joyce Bridge. He’d love to guide you.”
Chapter 15.
“TAKE THIS LEFT.” Peter pointed. He glanced at Elliot. Know I’ve seen you before. Where? Where the hell are we? Why the hell am I even here? I don’t know where the hell I’m going. “Yeah, straight ahead. It’s right over there, I think.” Fucking Carmine.
Elliot, intent on driving, nodded, slowing down. Through the whole ride, he had not uttered a word. Next to one of the giant red-brick mill buildings flanking the street, a few hundred feet shy of the twin obelisks marking the entrance to the Joyce bridge, he parked. He killed the ignition. The rumbling beneath the hood of the Gurkha’s gray Dodge Ram died abruptly.
“Best if you wait here, Peter,” Elliot said.
“Uh, okay.”
Elliot nodded, his eyes locked on the bridge. “I will return shortly. If I do not … here are the keys. Drop them off at the Jade Palace for me, okay?”
“Sure.” Peter caught the keys.
Elliot stepped out, closed the door, and strode like a king towards the bridge while Peter watched.
Only pants the Gurkha had that would fit him, I guess. And a hospital johnny? Not that I should be talking … with my purple freaking sweatpants. Peter looked in disgust at his own clothes, well, Ringo’s. He pulled his long coat around him tight and remembered something. “Shit!” Frantically, he rolled down the window and stuck his head out.
“Elliot! Elliot!” he yelled as loud as he dared. “Call him LORD Brudnoy! LORD Brudnoy!”
Elliot, in the distance, gave no indication he heard as he leaped the stone parapet and disappeared.
“Shit
.” Peter rolled the window up and locked the door. It was dark, and the mills stared down at him with hundreds of black menacing eyes.
Maybe I should go tell him? No, he knows. He must know. Besides, Brudnoy’ll kill me … Brudnoy’ll kill him … Brudnoy’ll kill me!
A trashcan banged in the distance, and Peter jumped in his seat. “What the—?” Peter said, comforted somehow by the sound of his own voice. The reverberation of the trashcan died in the distance, and things went quiet once more. The gray giant mill buildings loomed overhead. “It was nothing, a cat, definitely a cat. Probably Winthrop.” The gray car, the cruising shark, entered his mind.
Hunkering down as low as he could, Peter’s eyes just peeped over the dashboard. Shadows played across the wet streets, cast by the few streetlights working. Peter double-checked the locks on the doors and settled back deep in his seat. Wanda’s kitchen knife was clutched in a white-knuckled fist within his pocket. Hurry up, Elliot.
Time passed.
Hurry up.
Peter drummed his fingers on the dashboard and hummed. Maybe I should go. He slid the key into the ignition and turned them counter-clockwise. The radio came on. Music was a little comfort; it drowned out the background noises that sent Peter twisting in his chair and sweating profusely. Come on Elliot.
Shit, battery’s gonna die. Peter turned back the keys and took them from the ignition. He didn’t know Elliot, didn’t trust him, and truth be told, he made him nervous. But when sitting in the dark, alone for any length of time, in a strange city, where monsters really do exist, any company is good company. Even if it is a geriatric, johnny-wearing geezer who looks like he just escaped from a mental institution.
Peter waited. From the corner of his eye, something moved. What the fuck is that!?
“Jesus.”
It was a gray, bedraggled cat. It sauntered across the street in front of the truck.
“A cat, a freaking cat.” Peter took a deep breath. “I love cats.” He settled back in his chair and watched it saunter across the street, watched it turn, freeze, arch its back and then bolt away hissing.
