Down These Strange Streets

by George R. R. Martin; Gardner Dozois

  She leaned back in her chair and gave me her big smile again. It really was quite impressive. She must have spent a lot of time practicing it in front of a mirror.

  “I know: Find a missing heart, and a missing man, in a missing house. But if finding them were easy I wouldn’t need you, would I, Mister Taylor?”

  She got up to leave. As entirely calm and composed as when she’d entered, despite her fascinating sob story.

  “How will I find you?” I said.

  “You won’t, Mister Taylor. I’ll find you. Toodles.”

  She waggled her fingers at me in a genteel good-bye, and was off, striding away with a straight back, ignoring her surroundings as though they were unworthy of her. Which they probably were. Strangefellows isn’t exactly elite, and you couldn’t drive it upmarket with a whip and a chair. I sipped thoughtfully at my wormwood brandy for a while, and then strolled over to the long mahogany bar to have a quiet word with Strangefellows’ owner, bartender, and long-time pain in the neck, Alex Morrisey. Alex only wears black because no one has come up with a darker color, and he could gloom for the Olympics, with an honorable mention in existential angst. He started losing his hair while he was still in his early twenties, and I can’t help feeling there’s a connection. He was currently prodding the bar snacks with a stick, to see if they had any life left in them.

  A bunch of spirits were hanging round the bar: shifting semitransparent shapes that blended in and out of each other as they drained the memories of old wines from long-empty bottles. Only Alex could sell the same bottle of wine several times over. I made the sign of the extremely cross at the spirits, and they drifted sulkily off down the bar so Alex and I could talk privately.

  “Gideon Brooks,” Alex said thoughtfully, after I’d filled him in on the necessary details. He cleaned a dirty glass with the same towel he used to mop up spills from the bartop, to give him time to think. “Not one of the big Names, but you know that as well as I do. Of course, the really powerful ones like to stay out of sight and under the radar. But the rosewood box, Heart’s Ease . . . that name rings a bell. Some sort of priceless collectible; the kind that’s worth so much it’s rarely bought or sold, but more often prized from the dead fingers of its previous owner.”

  “Collectibles,” I said. “Always more trouble than they’re worth. And the Nightside is littered with those magic little shops that sell absolutely anything, no questions asked, and certainly no guarantees. Where the hell am I supposed to start?”

  Alex smirked and slapped a cheap flyer down before me. ONCE AND FUTURE COLLECTIBLES, announced the ugly block lettering. I should have known. All kinds of rare and strange items turn up in the Nightside, from the past, the future, and any number of alternate earths. The jetsam and flotsam of the invisible world. And, this being the Nightside, there’s always someone ready to make a profit out of it. The Once and Future Collectibles traveling show offered the largest selection of magical memorabilia and general weird shit to be found anywhere. Someone would know about the rosewood box. I made a note of the current address and looked up to find Alex grinning at me.

  “You know who you need to talk to,” he said. “The Queen of Hearts. She’s bound to be there, and she knows everything there is to be known about heart-related collectibles. Big Bad Betty herself... I’m sure she’ll be only too happy to renew your acquaintance . . .”

  “Don’t,” I said. “The only good thing that woman ever taught me was to avoid mixing my drinks.”

  “I thought you made a lovely couple.”

  “You want a slap?”

  I LEFT STRANGEFELLOWS AND HEADED OUT INTO THE NARROW RAIN-SLICK streets of the Nightside. The night was bustling with people, and some things very definitely not people, all in hot-eyed pursuit of things that were bad for them. Hot neon burned to every side, and cool music wafted out of the open doors of the kind of clubs that never close; where you can put on the red shoes and dance till you bleed. Exotic smells from a hundred different cuisines, barkers at open doors shilling thrills so exotic they don’t even have a name in polite company, and, of course, the twilight daughters, patrolling every street corner; love for sale, or something very like it. You’re never far from heaven or hell in the Nightside, though they’re often the same place, under new management.

  I was heading for the old Market Hall, where the Once and Future Collectibles were currently set up, when someone eased up alongside and made himself known to me. He was got up like a 1950s biker: all gleaming black leathers, polished steel chains, peaked leather cap, and an almost convincing Brando swagger. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, seventeen, with a corpse-pale face and thin colorless lips. His eyes were dark, his gaze hooded and malignant. He matched my pace exactly, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.

  “The name’s Gunboy,” he said, in a calm, easy monotone, not even looking at me. “Mister Sweetman wants to talk with you. Now.”

  “All lines busy,” I said. “Call back later.”

  “When Mister Sweetman wants to talk to someone, they talk to him.”

  “How nice for Mister Sweetman. But when I don’t want to talk to people, I have a tendency to push them off the pavement and let them go play with the traffic.”

  Gunboy took one hand out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at me, the fingers shaped like a child’s imaginary gun. He let me have a good look at it, and then pointed the single extended finger at a row of blazing neon bulbs set above the door to a Long Pigge franchise. His hand barely moved, but one by one the bulbs exploded, sparks flying wildly on the night air. A large man in a blood-soaked white overall came hurrying out to complain, took one look at Gunboy, and went straight back in again. Gunboy blew imaginary smoke from his finger and then stuck it casually in my ribs. He wasn’t smiling, and his dark gaze was hot and compelling.

  “Conceptual guns,” he said, his lips barely moving. “Conceptual bullets. Real, because I believe they are. The power comes from me, and so do the dead bodies. Come with me, or I’ll make real holes in you.”

  I considered him thoughtfully. Down the years, I’ve acquired several useful and really quite underhanded tricks for dealing with guns aimed in my direction, but they all depended on there being some kind of actual gun to deal with. So I gave Gunboy my best I’m not in the least intimidated smile, and allowed him to take me to his master. Gunboy was kind enough to put his hand back in his pocket as we walked along together. I’m not sure my pride would have survived otherwise.

  MISTER SWEETMAN TURNED OUT TO BE STAYING AT THE HOTEL DES HEURES: a very upmarket, very pricey establishment, where all the rooms were individually time-coded. Stay as long as you like in your room, and not one moment will have passed when you step outside again. The ultimate in assured privacy—as long as you keep your door locked. You could spend your whole life in one of those rooms—though don’t ask me how they manage room service.

  Gunboy guided me to the right room, performed a special knock on the door, waited for it to open, and then pushed me inside. The single finger prodding me in my back was enough to keep me moving. Mister Sweetman was waiting for us. A very large Greek gentleman in a spotless white kaftan, he rose ponderously from an overstuffed chair and nodded easily to me. His head was shaved, he wore dark eye makeup, and he smiled only briefly as he gestured for me to take the chair opposite. We both sat down, looking each other over with open curiosity. Gunboy stayed by the door, his hands back in his jacket pockets, looking at nothing in particular.

  “Mister Taylor!” said Sweetman, in a rich, happy voice. “An honor, my dear sir, I do assure you! One bumps into so many living legends in the Nightside that it is a positive treat to encounter the real thing! I am Elias Sweetman, a man of large appetites, always hungry for more. You and I, sir, have business to discuss. To our mutual benefit, I hope. You may talk candidly here, Mister Taylor; dear Gunboy will ensure that we are not interrupted.”

  Gunboy gave me a brief look, to indicate that I’d better behave myself,
and then leaned back against the door. His eyes were immediately elsewhere, as he thought about whatever teenage thrill-killers think about. I was going to have to do something about Gunboy, for my pride’s sake. I smiled easily at Sweetman while he arranged the folds of his kaftan for maximum comfort. He looked like a man who liked his comforts. He smiled on me like some favorite uncle who might bestow all manner of treats if he felt so inclined.

  “Your reputation precedes you, Mister Taylor, indeed it does, so let us not beat about the bush. You are currently in pursuit of a certain prize that I have a special interest in; the box, Mister Taylor, the rosewood box. It has gone by many names, of course, inevitable for a treasure that has passed through so many hands down the centuries, but I believe you might know it as Heart’s Ease.”

  “I know the name,” I said, carefully noncommittal.

  He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “I do admire a man who plays his cards close to his chest, indeed I do, Mister Taylor! But there’s no need to be bashful here. I have pursued the rosewood box for many years, through many lands in many worlds, disputing with equally serious collectors along the way, but now . . . the box has come to the Nightside. So here we all are. Yes . . . I must ask you, Mister Taylor: what, precisely, is your interest in the box?”

  I didn’t see any good reason to conceal the truth, so I gave him the reader’s-notes version of what Holly told me, concealing only her name. When I was finished, Sweetman gave his short bark of laughter again.

  “Whatever the rosewood box may turn out to contain, Mister Taylor, I can assure you it is most definitely not the heart of some unimportant little witch. No, no . . . the box contains a source of great power. A great man’s heart, perhaps even a god’s . . . Some say the box contains the preserved heart of the great old god Lud, the original foundation stone for London. Others say the box contains the missing heart of that terrible old sorcerer, Merlin Satanspawn. Or perhaps the heart of Nikola Tesla, the broken and bitter saint of twentieth-century science. No one knows for sure; only that the box contains a power worth dying for. Or killing for . . . Certainly, the box has become so famous in its own right it has become a collectible in itself, whatever it might eventually prove to contain.”

  “So,” I said, “a source of wealth, and possibly power. No wonder so many people want it.”

  “Passed from hand to hand down the years, acquiring blood and legends along the way, Mister Taylor. Priceless because there isn’t enough money in the world to buy it. You have to be man enough to take it, and hold on to it.”

  He was leaning forward now, licking his lips, his eyes gleaming. He was so close to what he’d chased for so long he could almost taste it, and only his need to be sure that he knew everything I knew kept him from harsher methods of interrogation. And since he had no way of knowing how little I did know, I made a point of leaning back in my chair and stretching easily.

  “What do you think is in the rosewood box?” I said.

  He leaned back in his chair and studied me thoughtfully, taking his time before answering. “I have been given good reason to believe that the box contains the heart of William Shakespeare, Mister Taylor. The heart of England itself, some say.”

  “And what would you do with such a thing, once you got hold of it?”

  Sweetman smiled widely. “I mean to eat it, Mister Taylor! Only the rarest and most exquisite gastronomic experiences can arouse my jaded palate these days, and this particular delicacy should prove most satisfying . . . You have a gift for finding things, Mister Taylor. Find the box for me. However much the little witch is paying you, I will double her offer.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “But I have to be true to my clients.”

  “Even when they lie to you?”

  “Perhaps especially then.”

  I got up to leave, and Sweetman immediately gestured to Gunboy at the door. He straightened up as I approached and brought one hand out of his leather jacket. I brought one hand out of my trench coat pocket, ripped open the sachet of coarse pepper I always keep with me, and threw the whole lot in his face. His head snapped back, startled, but it was already too late. He sneezed explosively, again and again, while shocked tears ran down his face from squeezed-shut eyes. He waved his finger back and forth, but it didn’t worry me. With his nose and eyes full of pepper, there was no way Gunboy could concentrate enough to manifest his conceptual guns. Never leave home without condiments. Condiments are our friends. I easily sidestepped the weeping Gunboy and opened the door. I risked a quick look back, just in case Sweetman had his own hidden weapons, but he had lost all interest in me. He had his arm around Gunboy’s shaking shoulders and was comforting him like a child. Or almost like a child.

  I shut the door quietly behind me and left the Hotel des Heures. At least I hadn’t wasted any time.

  THE OLD MARKET HALL IS A GREAT OPEN BARN OF A PLACE, AND THE ONCE and Future Collectibles traveling show filled it from wall to wall with hundreds of stalls, large and small, offering more rare and unusual memorabilia in one place than the human mind could comfortably accommodate. I strolled up and down the aisles, glancing casually at this stall and that, carefully not showing too much interest in anything. Not that there was anything particularly exceptional on offer . . . An old Betamax video of Elvis starring as Captain Marvel, in some other world’s 1969 movie Shazam! One of Dracula’s coffins, complete with original grave dirt and a certificate of authenticity. The mummified head of Alfredo Garcia, smelling strongly of Mexican spices. And the mirror of Dorian Gray.

  I finally wandered over to the Queen of Hearts’ stall, as though I just happened to be heading in her general direction. Big Bad Betty was running the whole thing on her own, as usual: large as life and twice as imposing. A good six feet tall and strongly built, she wore a stylized gypsy outfit, complete with an obviously fake wig of long dark curls and a hell of a lot of clanking bracelets up and down her meaty arms. The fingers of her large hands were covered in enough heavy metal rings to qualify as knuckle-dusters, and she looked like she’d have no hesitation in using them. She was attractive enough, in a large, dark, and even swarthy kind of way. I gave her my best ingratiating smile, and her baleful glare didn’t alter one iota.

  I pretended to look over the contents of her stall, to give her time to realize the scowl wasn’t going to be enough to scare me off. Big Bad Betty liked to style herself the Queen of Hearts because she specialized in heart-related collectibles. She was currently offering the carefully preserved heart of Giacomo Casanova (bigger than you’d think), a phial of heart’s blood from Varney the Vampyre, and a pack of playing cards that once belonged to Lewis Carroll, with all the hearts painted in dried blood. Nothing special . . .

  “You’ve got some nerve showing your face here, John Taylor,” Betty said finally.

  “Just looking,” I said easily. “I do like a good browse.”

  “I hired you to find my missing husband!”

  “I did find him. Not my fault he’d had his memory wiped and didn’t remember you anymore. And not in any way my fault that he’d had his memory wiped to make sure he wouldn’t be able to remember you. Maybe you should have tried counseling . . .”

  She scowled at me. “You never called me afterward. Not once.”

  “That wasn’t what you hired me for.”

  “What do you want here, Taylor? On the grounds that the sooner you’re out of my sight, the better.”

  “What can you tell me about the rosewood box, called by some Heart’s Ease?”

  She couldn’t resist telling me. She does so love to show off what she knows, and no one knows more about hearts than the Queen of Hearts.

  “The box is centuries old, supposedly first put together in pre-Revolutionary France, designed to contain the suffering of a brokenhearted lover. He put it all in the box, so he could be free of it. Hence the name, Heart’s Ease. How very French. Though there are other stories . . . that what the box contains has become something else, down the centuries. Something . . . darker.
Hungrier. Making the box the perfect container for all kinds of magical and significant hearts. Which is why the box has had so many other names. Heartbreaker, the Hungry Heart, the Dark Heart; you pays your money, and you believes what you chooses. Far as I know, no one’s dared open the box for years. Any collector with two working brain cells to bang together stays well clear of it.

  “Now: Buy something, or get lost.”

  I nodded politely and moved away from her stall as quickly as possible without actually running. I’d gotten everything I needed from Betty, but I was still going to need a little specialized help if I was to find Gideon Brooks, his traveling house, and the rosewood box. So I concentrated and raised my special gift. My inner eye slowly opened, my third eye, my private eye; and I looked round the Market Hall with my raised Sight, searching for what I needed. A key that would unlock a traveling dimensional door. Something blazed up brightly, not too far away, glowing white-hot with mystical significance. I strode quickly down the aisles and finally stopped before a stall that offered nothing but keys, in all shapes and sizes. Skeleton keys to unlock any door, blessed silver keys to reveal hidden secrets, solid iron keys to undo chastity spells. Keys are very old symbols and can undo any number of symbolic magics.

  One key stood out among all the ranks and rows of hanging keys, shining very brightly for my inner eye only. A simple brass key, marked with prehuman glyphs. I’d seen its kind before, in certain very restricted books. This was a summoning key, which could not only open any door, but actually bring the door to you. Just what I needed. Unfortunately, the key didn’t have a price tag on it. And in a place like this, that could only mean that if you had to ask the price, you couldn’t afford it. So, I used my gift to find the one moment when the stall-holder’s attention was somewhere else, and I just reached out, took the key, and walked away.