On the corner was a small fishbowl, inside of which something like a little human brain with fins was swimming laps.
Fuck it, Bayliss thought, and crossed her legs.
“Thanks for getting here so promptly,” Woolrich said.
“Yes. It’s remarkable for you, Nelson,” said Salzman, Woolrich’s assistant. “Either you’re bucking for my job or this new partner of yours is a good influence.”
Nelson nodded. “You nailed it, Salzy. Punctuality is my new spirit animal.”
“Punctuality maybe, but your timing isn’t everything it could be, now is it?”
Nelson’s eyes narrowed. “Can you say that again, only this time in English?”
Bayliss watched the two men spar, still not sure where to look. She didn’t like Salzman, though it wasn’t anything personal. She was just never entirely comfortable around mooks. Sure, they looked like regular people, but like all the walking dead, their eyes were pale and slightly milky. Bayliss finally settled her gaze on Woolrich’s desk. She knew the problem was hers, not Salzman’s. Prejudice begins at home, her mother would say. Self-improvement every day, in every way, makes the angels smile. Bayliss made a mental note to check the office newsletter for any upcoming seminars. Carpooling with the post-life, or maybe an undead mixer. Something like that.
“May I ask why we’re here, sir?” she said.
“I’m glad someone is interested in the topic at hand,” said Woolrich. He knitted his fingers together and looked serious. “Would you like the bad news or the extremely bad news?”
“Um . . .”
“The bad news,” said Nelson. “I can tell Herman Munster over there is super anxious for us to hear the really bad news. Let him wait a little while longer.”
“I don’t mind,” said Salzman. “I have all the time in the world.”
“Peachy.”
Woolrich cleared his throat. “If you two are finished.” He looked from Nelson to Salzman and let his gaze settle on Bayliss. “The bad news is this: the augury department got it wrong. Not very wrong, but wrong enough.”
“Wrong about what, sir?” said Bayliss.
“This Cooper you’ve been surveilling, been up to anything, has he?”
Bayliss and Nelson looked at each other. Nelson said, “Well, he’s planning a robbery . . .”
“Wrong,” said Salzman.
“Yes. Wrong,” said Woolrich. “He’s already done the robbery. Last night.”
Nelson sat up. “But how is that possible? The swamis told us he was putting together an operation for the night of the new moon.”
“Well, he changed his mind. Or something scrambled the psychics’ readings. Whatever it was, he’s already committed the crime and is in possession of the object.”
“Oh, crap,” said Bayliss.
“Yeah,” Nelson said.
“If that’s the bad news, what’s the extremely bad?” said Bayliss.
“It’s your fault,” said Salzman.
“How is it our fault?”
“Yeah. How is it her fault?” said Nelson.
“Because he was your case. You were supposed to be watching him and you dropped the ball,” Woolrich said.
“But we only did it because we were told it was tonight,” Bayliss said.
“That’s no excuse. You should have been watching him,” said Salzman.
“We have other cases,” said Nelson. “And Bayliss is right. We only took our eyes off him because there was supposed to be nothing going on.”
“Where is Cooper now?” said Woolrich.
“He’s been staying with his jailbird buddy, Morton.”
“I suggest you find this Morton or, better yet, Cooper and clean up this mess. The object is the department’s responsibility. You need to get it for us.”
“By any means necessary,” said Salzman.
Bayliss felt a little cold inside. “By any means, you mean . . .”
“Any.”
She looked at Nelson. He shrugged.
“You ever shoot anybody?” he said.
“No.”
“You’ll love it. It really clears out the sinuses.”
Bayliss looked at Woolrich. “Do we have to shoot him?”
Woolrich scratched his cheek, trying to cover up a twitch. “Shoot him. Don’t shoot him. Cut off his head and turn him into a Christmas ornament, I really don’t care. Just get the object. Forget all your other cases. Take care of this.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bayliss.
“Yes, sir,” said Nelson.
Woolrich leaned back in his chair and glanced at a trophy on the wall. A head mounted on a plaque. Bayliss looked too. The head wasn’t quite human, it was more like . . . actually, she wasn’t sure what it was, but there were a lot of heads on a lot of plaques on the walls. Either Woolrich enjoyed collecting rare zoological species or he just really liked killing things.
He shuffled some papers on his desk and spoke softly. “You know, there are alternatives to continuing with your current jobs. For instance, because of the high mortality rate, they’re always looking for new recruits in the Transdimensional Arachnid Department.” He raised a finger toward a photo of himself standing next to a black widow spider that came up to his shoulder.
“And, of course, we’re always looking for a few good people in the mook department,” said Salzman with a toothy undead grin.
Woolrich nodded. “I think my assistant’s point is simply that there are plenty of opportunities for you both if fieldwork doesn’t pan out. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bayliss.
“Got it double,” said Nelson.
“We’re done here. Salzman, would you see them out?”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Salzman came from around the desk and held out a hand in the direction of the door. Bayliss and Nelson got up and followed the dead man.
“Just one more thing,” called Woolrich. The three of them stopped by the open door. “Which one of you punched me in my nether regions the other day?”
Bayliss and Nelson pointed at each other.
“Well, that clears that right up. Dismissed.”
As Salzman ushered them through the door he said, “See you crazy kids soon. I’ll bring the bone saw.”
Nelson turned to him. “You should really consider those teeth-whitening strips. I’m only mentioning it because we’re colleagues.”
Salzman winked at them the way a shark winks at a guppy before swallowing it and closed the office door.
Bayliss and Nelson walked to the elevator.
“Do you think he means it?” said Bayliss. “About the spiders and mooks?”
“Who? Captain Twitchy? Nah. He’s just trying to make his quota of diabolical prick points.”
“I could use a drink,” said Bayliss.
“I could use a brewery. Let’s get out of here.”
NINETEEN
FAST EDDIE SAT WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL AT A table in a strip joint called La Belle Captive. Racer X and Harrison had been drinking shots with him for the past two hours. The name of the place made Racer X suspicious. He didn’t speak much French, but he was sure the word captive meant the same thing in every language. So far, the only thing captive had been his wallet, but he kept his eyes open for anything fishy.
Harrison seemed cool, but Racer X’s head swam. However, he refused to let on that he was drunk. He was afraid Fast Eddie might find another elevator shaft to push him into.
“It was a good job,” Eddie said. He’d been saying it every few minutes since they’d been at the club. Racer X noted that at first Eddie had been merely saying it. Now he was growling it like a bulldozer someone was running on meth instead of gasoline.
A pretty redhead in a cutoff Little Mermaid T-shirt sat down next to Racer X. “Hi. I’m Ariel,” she said.
“Ariel. That’s a pretty name,” Racer X said.
“Thanks! What’s your name?” said Ariel.
“His name is fuck off,” said Fast Eddie.
“All our names are fuck off. So fuck off.”
Ariel shoved her chair back and stood. Racer X reached into his pocket with drunk numb fingers and handed her a twenty.
She looked at it and said, “Thanks. At least there’s one gentleman at this table.”
“He’s not a gentleman. He’s making a charitable donation to the Home for Wayward Skanks,” said Eddie. Ariel gave him the finger. As she walked away he shouted, “He’s going to need a receipt for that twenty.” Drunk, Fast Eddie’s laugh was like a hacksaw and an angle grinder making sweet love.
Harrison shook his head. “You’re in a mood and a half tonight,” he said.
Fast Eddie swallowed his shot. “It was a good job.”
“Yeah. It was,” Racer X said. “Sucks that it got all twisted up like it did.”
Eddie shook his head. “Not bad luck. Bad associates. What was Coop doing there?”
“Working, by the look of things,” said Harrison.
“Exactly,” Fast Eddie said. “And what are the odds of us both working the same building on the same night at the same time?”
“You think he knew we were on the job?” said Racer X.
“No question. What I want to know is what he was after.”
A brunette sat down at their table.
“Hi. I’m . . .”
“Not interested,” said Fast Eddie. “Tell the other girls this is a business conference, not prom night at Hayseed High. And tell the bartender to send over another round of drinks.”
“Sure thing. Should I have him spit in all of them or just yours?”
“Dealer’s choice, sweetheart,” said Fast Eddie as she stalked away.
Racer X leaned forward. “Eddie, man, we’ve been here all night and you’ve brushed off like a dozen girls. What are we doing in a strip club if we don’t want to meet them?”
Fast Eddie waved a dismissive hand. “I can enjoy tits without wanting to talk to them,” he said.
Racer X looked at Harrison. His brother shook his head slightly, telling him not to poke the bear. Racer X took the opportunity to shut up.
“So, what happens now?” said Harrison. “Are we going to hunt down a new job?”
Fast Eddie shook his head. “No. The other job isn’t over yet. We didn’t get the goods, so there was no payday. That’s unacceptable.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“I don’t give a Tallahassee fuck what you Girl Scouts do, but I’m going to find Coop. I’m going to ask him questions and other things.”
“What kind of other things?” said Racer X.
“I’m going to make his slow demise a personal priority.”
Racer X ran the words over in his head a couple of times to make sure he’d heard them right. Then he turned and looked at the girls. There were a lot of them. Drinkers, too. If he bolted for the door right now, he could get lost in the crowd. But what would happen then? Stupid question. Then I’ll be a loose end. On the same list as Coop. He didn’t know what kind of demise Fast Eddie had in mind for the other thief, but he’d seen the contents of Eddie’s tool bag. Now he wished he hadn’t. Now he wished he’d worked a little harder at his online trade school classes. By now, he could be repairing air conditioners in Miami, sipping mai tais with pretty girls, and not sitting next to a psychotic car crusher waiting for a tray of drinks he knew would have more spit in them than booze. He closed his eyes and pictured clean white beaches and blue water, and knew that he absolutely, 100 percent wasn’t going to cry.
TWENTY
THE DARK HIGH MAGISTER OF THE CLADIS ABADDONIS Lodge sat on his golden throne, though if you were being picky, it wasn’t really gold. Also, for those still insisting on pickiness, it wasn’t really a throne. It was a gilt Barcalounger, because of the Dark High Magister of the Cladis Abaddonis Lodge’s back, which today hurt like “two bitches fighting on the bitch float in a bitch parade.” (The Dark High Magister had been married once and it hadn’t worked out.)
“Come forward, Adept Six, and tell me, have you collected this month’s tithes from the other Lodge members?”
Adept Six stepped up to the Dark High Magister’s throne and placed a purple velvet bag on the silver TV tray next to the holy Barcalounger. “Yes, Dark High One. It’s in here.”
The Magister reached out a hand and winced as a shooting pain went up his spine. He picked up the bag and bounced it in his hand a couple of times. “It feels light.”
Adept Six hung his head and said, “It is, Dark High One. We’ve lost a few members recently.”
“Why is that?”
Acolyte Three, the only other member of the Lodge who’d bothered to stop by that day, said, “The head of Cladis Abaddonis in San Diego has a Volvo dealership. He’s offering very good financing terms to any members of the other Lodges who leave theirs and join his.”
The Magister thought for a minute and nodded gravely. “What kind of terms?”
“A forty-eight-month lease. Full warranty for three years. No money down.”
The Magister settled back deeper into his throne. “Those are nice cars. And good terms.”
“Yes, Dark High One,” said Adept Six. “Plus, he’s throwing in a Bluetooth radio for free.”
“For free?” said the Magister. “That bunch has always been a thorn in my side.”
“Yes, sir. They’re a disgrace to Lord Abaddon,” said Acolyte Three.
“But clever.”
“Yes,” said Adept Six and Acolyte Three together.
“San Diego dicks,” said the Magister, and cleared his throat to cover it up. He felt bone weary and fragile. He hated being old. He had enough stents in his heart that the staff called him Iron Man when they thought he couldn’t hear. He’d been sent to a hospice twice and was once pronounced clinically dead for six minutes. He had finally been revived by a combination of mystical herbs and pure hate. Hate for the other Lodges, and hate for those Caleximus bastards who had cursed him with a second-rate heart, a bad back, and old age. He wasn’t supposed to age. He was a Dark High Magister. There was no doubt in the Magister that this was anything but a curse. It never occurred to him that running a fish-and-chips place on Skid Row and a lifetime of fried food might have more to do with his blood pressure and cholesterol than hexes.
“How many are left?” he said.
“Adepts and Acolytes?” said Adept Six.
“No. Tea cozies and shoe trees. Of course, Adepts and Acolytes.”
“At least a dozen, Dark High One.”
“What does ‘at least’ mean? More than a dozen?”
Adept Six pursed his lips, shook his head. “No. Just the twelve.”
The Magister sighed. “A sad state for a once-great Lodge,” he said.
“Yes. Sad,” said Acolyte Three.
“We were feared once. Los Angeles was the biggest Lodge in the country.”
“Yes, great. And feared.”
“Then it all went wrong.”
“Yes, Dark High One,” said Adept Six.
“Why do you think?” said the Magister. Adept Six didn’t say anything. He turned to the Acolyte.
Acolyte Three cleared his throat. “Well, sir, it might have been the d’s.”
“Sadly, you might be right,” mumbled the Magister.
Some of the most vicious fights between the Cladis Abaddonis Lodges were over spelling. Over the centuries, quite a few knives had ended up in quite a few backs over whether their god’s name was Abaddon or Abbadon. Besides that, there was also the tension over the phrase Cladis Abaddonis itself. It was the particular kind of problem faced by almost all secret societies at some point. Basically, no one in the Lodge really knew how Latin worked. They all liked the name Cladis Abaddonis because it had an official and mysterious ring to it, but no one knew if it made any sense. And they couldn’t ask for help because it would mean revealing sacred Lodge secrets. In the end, the Lodges all crossed their fingers and hoped for the best. And counted themselves lucky for being so enigmatic that few outsid
e the group knew their name.
“I suppose we should discuss the Frank situation,” said the Magister.
Adept Six and Acolyte Three flinched at the mention of a Lodge member’s real name. It was Frank’s own fault. Both knew that everyone else had passed the initiation rites and earned a Lodge degree. There was only one Magister, but plenty of Adepts and Acolytes. However, Frank could never quite get his shit together enough to get higher than, well, Frank. It was the Lodge’s secret shame.
The Magister sighed. “Now that Frank is dead, I guess we can talk about the elephant in the room.”
“What elephant is that?” said Adept Six.
“Are you being cute?” said the Magister.
Adept Six shook his head.
“How about you, Acolyte?”
Acolyte Three shook his head, too.
“Christ,” said the Magister and dropped his head into his hand. After a moment he said, “Frank was ripping us off.”
“Ripping us off how?” said the Acolyte.
“Ripping us off! What part of ripping us off don’t you get? He was stealing sacred objects and selling them on eBay. Sometimes to hippie-bead, holy-roller, spiritual nut jobs.”
Acolyte Three’s eyes narrowed. “Does this have something to do with room 8?”
The Magister nodded gravely. “It has everything to do with room 8.”
The Acolyte made a face. “Is that the one that’s starting to smell?”
“Yes. So, you haven’t actually been inside?”
“No, Dark High One. Should I?”
“Only if you want to lose your breakfast,” said Adept Six. “And I mean all the breakfasts you ever ate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Frank blew up. Or, more likely, was blown up,” said the Magister. “Did you ever see that video where they dynamited a whale on a beach in Oregon?”
Acolyte Three nodded excitedly. “Yes, sir. It’s pretty awesome, Dark High One.”
“Well, imagine if that happened inside. In this building. To Frank. In room 8.”
“He exploded?”
“Like a poodle in a microwave,” said Adept Six. “It’s like someone painted the room with beef chili.”
The Everything Box Page 13
