by Paul Neuhaus
Molly’s voice rose a sing-song octave. “Trouble? What trouble?”
Quinn turned away from perusing her clothing and looked at Molly. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”
“Ugh,” the brunette plopped down on the bed. “That’s what Cam used to say to my mom whenever he realized she had too much on her plate. He kept her in the dark until the truth had to come out all at once. Then she’d get the full whammy. There was no right way to handle it. I swear to God: we’re turning into my parents.”
Henaghan pulled out a blue dress that broke above the knee. “How about this one?”
“It’s a little slutty. I mean I like it, but I don’t know if it’s a dinner-with-strangers kinda dress.”
“Mmm,” Quinn said, replacing the dress in the closet. Then she returned to the topic at hand. “We gotta have some kinda strategy. I don’t want all your hair to fall out. I don’t wanna fuck a bald woman.”
Molly reached past Quinn to pull a burgundy dress out of the closet. Pretty but more conservative than Henaghan’s first choice. She handed it to her girlfriend.
“Good call,” the redhead said. “Goes with my eyes.”
“Was that an Irish are Drunks joke?” Blank returned to her position seated on the bed.
“I don’t even know anymore,” Quinn said, holding the dress up in front of herself.
Molly scratched one of her bare legs. “You know what one thing is I thought I’d never be… a shrinking violet. You know me. I’m an earthy gal. I’m gusto girl. I’m fun. I don’t wanna be a load. Spouses of loads do their level best, but eventually, they come to resent the load. And the load, even though they don’t mean anything by it, kinda deserve it. They bring it on themselves with their… loadliness.”
Henaghan got panties and a bra out of her dresser drawer and, on her way to the bathroom, she stooped and kissed Molly on the lips. “You’re not a load,” she said.
Molly stood, grabbing a dress and underwear of her own and moving toward the bathroom. “You showering? Hold on,” she said with a sigh. “I’m coming too.”
As Molly locked their front door behind herself, Quinn looked down into the parking lot and saw something that made her say, “Jesus Christ.”
Blank said, “What?” as she turned to face away from her girlfriend. Down in the lot she saw two men with identical postures. Both were leaning against the trunks of their respective cars and dragging on cigarettes. They weren’t even trying to disguise the fact they were looking up toward the two women. Both wore rumpled suits and long overcoats. One was white and bald, one was black and had a sizable afro. One was yin to the other’s yang. “Who’re those guys?” Blank said.
“I have no idea. But that brings it up to, what, three or four creepy guys following me and spying on me?”
The older woman started to make a concerned comment but caught herself. She was now self-conscious about her Worry Wart Mode. “Who can blame them? You look like the shit in that dress.”
“I do look like the shit in this dress,” Quinn agreed.
The ladies walked down one flight of stairs and knocked on the door. Simone Gros, looking prettied-up herself, opened up and invited the girls in. After some pleasantries, Henaghan introduced Molly.
“Ah, the good lady-wife!” Gros said. “Now I see why our Miss Henaghan chose you to shack-up with. You’re a knock-out!”
Blank actually blushed and thanked their host.
“You know, technically, Molly’s not my… lady-wife,” Quinn said.
Simone gave them a dismissive wave. “You say tomato; I say to-mah-to. It’s all just labels. Please, come in. Have a seat!”
The two younger women did as they were asked as Arnold Ristich came in from the kitchen carrying a covered platter. He wore an apron that read, “Embrassez le cuisinier”. The smell from whatever he brought in was heavenly.
Simone sat on a chair across from Blank and Henaghan. It was embroidered with a subtle pattern. Black birds perched on tree limbs. “Arnold has prepared a fantastic meal for us this evening.”
Molly and Quinn turned to Ristich. “I was a cook before I was a gunsel,” he said.
Gros pished loudly. “Arnold is terrible at public relations. He wasn’t a cook, he was a chef. Paris, New York, Barcelona.” The heavy set woman pronounced “Barcelona” with a “th” just like a native Castilian.
The man in the apron returned to the kitchen and Quinn looked at Molly to see how she was holding up. The brunette was in good spirits even though she was fighting back an anxiety attack. For a second, Henaghan marveled at how much she could tell about her girlfriend from one simple glance. That depth of intimacy never developed with anyone else during Quinn’s long years in the social wilderness. One small upside to closer contact with her own species.
“Where is my head?!” Simone admonished herself. “Would either of you like an aperitif?”
“Oh, no thank you,” Quinn said.
Molly looked back and forth between Quinn and Simone. “I think ‘no thank you’, but I have just one question…”
“And what is that, dear?”
“What is an aperitif?”
Gros threw back her head and laughed. “Well done,” she said. “I do so hate it when people nod and smile and go on as if they know what they’re doing. I mean we’ve all done it, am I right? Just the other day, Arnold had to tell me what an I.U.D. was. I had been using the term quite incorrectly, I’m afraid.” The large woman took a breath and sat back down. “An aperitif is a before-dinner drink. Of course I could’ve said, ‘Would you like a before-dinner drink’, but I had to be all Continental and pompous.”
Quinn and Molly looked at one another and Molly smiled. “Well, I must say,” Blank said. “You don’t seem like a moldy old Babylonian god.”
Henaghan face-palmed, but Simone laughed again. “Thank you for saying so. Although technically, my people don’t date from Babylonian times. Unless I miss my guess, though, you weren’t being literal. You were referencing the film Ghostbusters.”
Both of the guests’ jaws went slack. “You’ve seen Ghostbusters?” Quinn said.
“Of course,” Simone replied as if the question were utterly ridiculous. “Many times. I love it dearly. Call me crazy if you like, but I would jump at the chance to go back to 1984 and have vigorous sex with Bill Murray. I find him strangely sexy.”
“I wanna have sex with 1984 Bill Murray, too!” Molly said. “There’s nothing crazy about it!”
Gros turned to Quinn. “How about you, dear?”
“I’m more the Harold Ramis type.”
The other two women nodded, understanding.
“Actually, not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m also probably not as old as you think,” Simone said. “By Asura standards, I’m as fresh as a daisy.”
Henaghan leaned in. “Really? How come?”
Gros sat back in her chair. “Well,” she said. “It’s all a bit sordid. As you may know, Asura women aren’t held in high regard by Asura men. In fact, I think I can say without fear of contradiction we’re treated a good deal worse than the women from your Middle Eastern countries. Unless she wants to be held captive and used by an Asura male, an Asura female keeps a low profile. In fact, I would’ve never come to Los Angeles before this year because your fair city hosted not one but two Asura males. Anyway—and I apologize for the coarseness of what I’m about to say—I am the product of a rape.”
Both Molly and Quinn sat back, each placing an involuntary hand on their chests.
“I was not around for any of the dawn-of-time shenanigans of my people,” Simone went on. “I’m not that old, and I can’t use magic. I guess you could look at that circumstance as a win given I’m not forced to hibernate the way many of the Originals are. Since I’m not burdened by either magic or advanced age. In the words of the immortal Mr. Murray, ’So, I got that going for me. Which is nice’.”
Ristich returned from the kitchen with more food. “Soup’s on, ladies,” he said. Molly, Quinn and Simo
ne went to the table, and, one at a time, the former chef pulled out their chairs and pushed them back in again. He then served them the first course and poured for them a wine ideally suited for the entrée he’d prepared. “Coq au vin,” he said. “A cliche but for good reason. Bon appetit.” With that he returned to the kitchen and none of them saw him again for the rest of the evening.
When he was gone, Simone leaned forward. “I’m going to spare you a future awkward situation,” she said. “Yes, Mr. Ristich and I are a couple.”
Molly and Quinn looked at one another, nodded, and turned back to their hostess. “Okay,” they said together.
“Also—and I say this only because even the finest tongues will sometimes wag—yes, it is an interspecies relationship. I am Asura and Arnold is human. I will also volunteer than his skills in the bedroom are prodigious. He’s taken me to places that are, frankly, cosmic.”
Molly laughed out loud. Quinn crinkled her nose and said, “T.M.I., Simone. T.M.I.”
Gros was confused. “What is T.M.I.?”
“‘Too much information,” Molly said, still snickering.
The stouter woman waved them off. “You American humans and your prudishness.”
After dinner, brandy and more light conversation, Molly and Quinn thanked Simone for a lovely evening and excused themselves.
“Shall I have Ristich drive you home?” Gros said, cackling at her own cleverness.
Once they were outside, Blank said, “Okay, maybe I’m crazy, but I like her.”
“She’s a bit flamboyant for my tastes, but, yeah, she seems like good people.” The redhead wasn’t engaged in the conversation. She was more interested in taking a look at the parking lot. When she saw that Mr. Yin and Mr. Yang had left, she was more relaxed. Molly took her hand and the two women mounted the steps.
When they got to their floor, they noticed their front door was ajar.
Quinn pulled off her shoes, gave them to Molly, pushed Molly behind her, then walked into the dark apartment. All the lights were off and the lamps from the parking lot outside only helped so much. Henaghan boosted her ability to see in the dark and the cluttered shapes defining the living room came into sharper focus. She needn’t have bothered since the interloper wasn’t being especially quiet. He was in the bedroom rifling through their stuff.
Henaghan reached out with a tendril made of ectoplasm and snagged the stranger. She gave a yank and the man flew through the air from one room to the other. He banged his shoulder on the doorframe and cried out. Once he was closer, Quinn dropped him in a heap right in front of her. The little fellow stood—whether to defend himself or to flee was unclear—but Quinn put him down again, blacking both of his eyes with twin fist jabs.
Annabelle the bird had become animated at the first sign of magic use. She was still cheeping incessantly. “Be quiet, Annabelle,” Quinn said. The familiar immediately did as she was told.
Molly came in, still holding Henaghan’s shoes. She turned on the light in the foyer. This illuminated a small, google-eyed man with dark hair and a soft presence. He was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie though the style emphasized he was not an American. He was rubbing the shoulder he’d banged on the way into the room. Quinn recognized him. He was the lurker from the bus terminal.
The redhead looked over her shoulder at Blank. “Why don’t you wait outside?”
Molly shook her head. “I live here, too. Was he going through our panty drawer?”
“I assure you,” the European said. “I have no interest in your underthings.”
Quinn picked up the man with another tendril and dropped him on one of the couches. “Who are you?” she said.
The little man looked back and forth between the two woman. He didn’t want to answer but finally did. “My name is Pietro Laskov,” he said.
“I read you in the terminal, Pietro Laskov,” Henaghan said. “I have a pretty good idea what you’re capable of—and it isn’t much. I assume you know who I am?”
Laskov nodded. He seemed a weak man, put upon by circumstance. Based on the way he carried himself, Quinn thought that must be Pietro’s default state.
“If you know who I am and you know what I can do, do you think trying anything would be a good idea?”
The little man shook his head.
“Alright. Now tell me what you’re doing here. What do you want?”
Laskov rolled his eyes. “What do I want? Don’t be stupid. I want the key that opens the locker that holds the bird.”
“What bird?” Quinn said, sitting down on the other couch. Molly stood behind her looking down at Pietro.
The European laughed, a sound defined by both its lack of character and its obvious derision. “Please, please, please. Let us not play games. We both know what I mean, so why pretend? I want the bird. The statue of Horus.”
“And which side are you on?” Henaghan said, leaning forward.
“Which side am I on? I’m on Pietro Laskov’s side. Do you have any idea how much that bird is worth? I’ve got at least two sets of motivated buyers. I could assign nearly any figure I can imagine.”
“So, you’re a mercenary?”
“I bristle at that description,” Laskov said. “The implication is too militaristic.” He grinned with perfect white teeth. “I am a lover, not a fighter.”
“You’re a sneak and thief.”
“That is also true,” Pietro agreed.
“Until I find out what’s going on here, that key stays with me. Anyone who wants it has to come and take it. How did you know I had the statue?”
Laskov shrugged as though what he was about to impart should be common knowledge. “Like our Halloween-time friend, I was tracking the movements of Captain Lennon. I knew he’d come here, so I decided to wait and to watch.”
“What do you mean by ‘Halloween-time friend’?”
Pietro made the quote sign in the air. “‘Detective’ Abrigo. A fellow traveller in the stolen antiquities business. I assume you already figured out he was not, in fact, a police officer?”
“I did. How well do you know him?”
Laskov crossed his legs, finally dropping the hand from his battered shoulder. “‘Know’ is a strong word. We have danced together in the past. Sometimes he emerges the winner, sometimes I do. But this is, by far, our highest stakes contest. This is the Holy Grail.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’ll attain unprecedented levels of foppishness should you succeed. Who is Captain Lennon?”
Pietro took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of his lips. “This is a situation that now affects you quite directly. Have you not done any of the homework? Captain Lennon is the man who died in your vestibule. You’re a smart girl. I assume you got that from context. What you may not know is that he was, indeed, a proper sea captain. Until his unfortunate demise, he was the master of the Ebon Flow, a small cargo hauler late of Long Beach, California. Right before Lennon fled inland, the ship itself fell victim to a career-ending injury. It burned away to the waterline.”
“And were you the match-happy culprit?”
Laskov laughed. “Please. Do I look like a common arsonist?”
“Captain Lennon was the last one to possess the bird before it came to me,” Quinn said. “Where did he get it, and how did it get here?”
The little man gave a dismissive wave. “Trivia. I didn’t come here to spin the biography of a caper. It was there, now it is here. You should be concerned more with those interested in your sudden custody of the article in question.”
“I know how to handle myself,” Henaghan said.
Pietro nodded. “That you do.”
“Stand up.”
Laskov looked back and forth between Quinn and Molly. He was afraid Quinn planned to exact a violent revenge for his break-in. “Look, I don’t think—”
“Stand up, I said.” Molly was surprised at the authority and power in her lover’s voice.
The little European stood reluctantly, smoothing both his jacket and h
is slacks. Before he could react, Quinn enveloped him in a vagina-shaped portal between places. It swallowed him from top to bottom and, when it was gone, so was Pietro Laskov.
“You’re kind of a badass,” Blank said to Henaghan.
“I know,” Henaghan replied.
Several blocks away, Pietro appeared above one of the commodes in the bus station men’s room. He hung suspended in the air for a moment before he dropped. One of his feet went into the water and the other landed on the floor. The awkward position caused him to tumble and fall. His momentum opened the stall door and he wound up on his face. An elderly man washing his hands concluded his business and walked as quickly as he could to get away from the stranger with one wet leg.
4
The Aeon of Horus
The next morning, Quinn went down the stairs to her Prius. She was trying to psych herself up for a trip to the San Fernando Valley. Even though she was only twenty-eight years old, she found any trip from one area of Greater Los Angeles to another to be exhausting. She ‘d already cued an upbeat playlist in her music app (“The Very Best of Prince”) and done her stretching exercises. Before she could get into the car, a voice called her from her right. She turned to see the two men on stake-out from the day before. The bald white man and the black guy with the afro. “Where you headed, red?” It was the white man.
Henaghan opened her car door and threw in her oversized purse. “So… You guys only work days?” She closed up the Prius and walked toward them.
“We’re freelancers. We make our own hours,” Afro said.
“Yeah, and I won’t do windows,” Baldy added.
Afro took a drag of his cigarette and flipped the tail of his long coat off his knee. “Whereas me… I’m a window washing motherfucker.”
Quinn nodded to both men. “I think that’s enough playful banter for now. Who are you guys?”
Both men stood and the girl shook each of their hands in turn. The white guy introduced himself as Ferley and the black guy’s name was Nate. They were both from San Francisco. “Turns out we got the same marching orders so we decided to pool our resources. On a strictly temporary basis, you understand.”
