Fantastic Detectives Page 2

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Two goblins,” said Marge. “I knew one of them. Billy Buckmiser. He’s no good, Detective. He’s nothing but a magic shark. Andy …” She trailed off. I could tell she felt guilty for her husband.

  “It’s OK,” I said. I knew of Billy Buckmiser. He was small-time. Liked to act tough. Sometimes he got nasty enough to set an example, and Andy was it, but Billy wasn’t the top of the food chain. He was a thug.

  “Believe me, Mrs. Bridgeman,” I said, “whatever your husband got sucked into, I understand.” That’s the truth. This damn city—hell, the whole kingdom—drove people down. If you weren’t born with a silver spoon, getting one was not in the cards. It made people do desperate things to get ahead. I’d never tell the Captain this, but I actually admired seeing folks with the guts to twist their situation and try to fight a system stacked against them. Black market magic was one of those twists. Sure, the law said buying it was illegal, but to me, the criminals were the pushers. Billy Buckmiser and whoever was pulling his strings.

  Marge began crying a little heavier. “It was for our son. It was just for our boy.”

  “It’s OK, Mrs. Bridgeman.”

  She continued. “All we did was turn some lead into gold. We just wanted him to have a chance. Get an education. Get out of this hell hole. We had to have magic to turn lead into gold. But we couldn’t pay it back fast enough, and …”

  “Listen,” I said. “You don’t need to give me the details. You’ve been through enough. I know what Billy does, and I know what he did to your husband. I’ll take it from here. You don’t have to worry about this anymore. I promise you that. And thank you, Mrs. Bridgeman. You’re doing the right thing. That was very brave.”

  ***

  It wasn’t far to Billy’s. Once I’d pressured a couple stoolies who still owed me, I found the place. Goblins live better than trolls, and Billy lived better than a lot of goblins. Crime pays. For a while. Until somebody skims the scum. Billy was on the edge of the slums, right where he didn’t have to feel it all around him but was within easy striking distance of his victims. The house had brown siding, and windows with glass, on the first floor. There was even some space, about five feet, between his house and the buildings on either side. Of course, the space was filled with rusting trash, but it was space just the same. A luxury not many had here.

  I held up when I got close enough to scout the place for a second before I moved in, but whatever muscle Billy was using wasn’t outside. Not surprising. Customers were too scared of him to begin with, and the beat cops were likely on the take. If Billy was feeling comfortable, that would work in my favor.

  I made my way smoothly to the front door. This was no time for knocking. I pulled my Glock, rocked back to get my weight behind my leg, and kicked the door in.

  There were only two of them. Billy was on a couch, watching an old tube television, and another goblin thug was in a wooden chair just inside the door. He was there in case of someone like me, but he was way too slow. With my gun drawn, it took a fraction of a second to lay a good pistol-whip. One clout, and he was out cold. A moment later, I was gliding closer to Billy, sights lined up and ready for action. He only got as far as laying his hands on the couch cushions to spring up.

  “Freeze,” I said. Billy clearly wasn’t ready for this. He stopped cold.

  “Who the hell are you?” said Billy.

  I kept my focus on Billy, but darted glances around the main room. Not much to see; goblins favored hoarding money, not spending it. A plain, wooden coffee table with a newspaper and a couple smut mags. One set of shelves holding a few disgusting knickknacks—maybe trophies from strong-arming the locals—and artwork on the wall. That was unusual for a goblin. It was a painting of some pixies playing poker. Billy had cash, but no taste. Predictable.

  The television was distracting. “Turn off the tube,” I said. Billy started pushing himself off the couch cushion. “Stop!”

  “Well, what the hell,” said Billy. “I got no remote. You want the TV off or not?”

  “Seriously?” I said. “No remote? What kind of trash hole is this?” In the blink of an eye, I flashed my pistol to the television, blasted out the tube, and had it trained on Billy again.

  “Hey!” said Billy.

  “Calm down,” I said.

  “But that’s my—”

  “Shut up. I didn’t come here to jaw about your lame-ass appliances.”

  “Well, what the hell are you doing here, then?” Billy had a lot of attitude for a thug with no protection and an angry cop in the room.

  “It’s your lucky day, scum,” I said. “I’m not here for you.”

  “Funny,” said Billy, “Nobody else lives here.”

  “Not so funny, smart guy. I want your boss.”

  “Boss? You’re crazy,” said Billy. “I got no boss.”

  “Skip it, Gobby,” I said. “I know you capped Andy Bridgeman, and I know you sold him magic. But you can’t make magic, can you, Billy? Who makes your magic?”

  “I got nothin’ to do with magic,” said Billy. “Never touch the stuff.”

  I lowered my gun and popped a round into Billy’s left knee. It came close to tearing his spindly little leg right off. Billy wailed in agony and grabbed his leg. I kept the Glock trained on him; this was a moment he might do something stupid.

  “Damn!” said Billy. “Damn you!” He screamed again. “Why’d you do that?” His dark blue-green blood was flowing down his calf.

  “There’s more where that came from,” I said. “I can do this all night.”

  “OK, OK,” Billy said, clutching his wiry thigh and rocking forward and back in pain. “The Caster. I don’t know his name. That’s all he goes by.”

  “The Caster?” I said. I’d heard of him. Bad news. Very powerful wizard. “How do you meet him?”

  “I don’t. He uses messengers. Delivery boys. I’ve never met him in person.”

  “How do I contact him?”

  “You don’t,” said Billy. “He contacts you, through the deliveries.”

  “Is he still in the Crystal Cave?” I’d never been there, but that’s where I’d always heard he lived, and wanted to see if Billy would confirm.

  “How should I know?” said Billy. “Go there and find out.”

  I thought I might just have to do that. The Crystal Cave wasn’t a fortress, or a secret. Not many saw the inside, though.

  “Now, Billy,” I said, “there’s only one more thing I need you to do for me.”

  ***

  The Crystal Cave wasn’t a place to barge into by yourself. I needed a team from the precinct. The next morning, I went in to see the Captain. Standard issue police station office. Too small, Spartan furnishings. I knocked.

  “Yeah,” he barked. I went in and closed the flimsy door, rattling the frosted glass window. Jake Spout was at his desk, a disheveled mess of papers and photos. Gargoyles weren’t known for being tidy. There were two armless wooden chairs in front of the desk, facing Jake, and I sat in one of them. Jake was shuffling and reading.

  “I did some hunting last night,” I said. “I know who’s behind the Bridgeman murder.”

  Without even looking up at me, Jake said, “You’re off the case.”

  “What?” I said. “Off the case? What’re you talking about? I’m on a solid track here, Jake. I want to take down The Caster.”

  Jake chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “You think The Caster killed Andy Bridgeman?”

  “His goons did,” I said, “but I want to take him. I want to go up there with a team and take him.”

  Jake wasn’t chuckling. “Nope. Leave it be.”

  “So, what, we don’t prosecute murders anymore?”

  Jake locked eyes with me. “I said leave it be. You are off the case.”

  He meant it. That didn’t sit well with me. I took a breath and looked away. “So, whose case is it, then? I’ll debrief with them.”

/>   Jake was still staring at me. “You’re not getting it, Dumpty. Forget the case. Don’t push this.”

  “How can you say that?” I said. “I can’t just let it go.”

  “You really need to,” said Jake. “This comes from higher than me. I have no choice, and neither do you. I’m trying to save your skin, here, Dumpty. This is bigger than us. This is how omelets get made. Let it go.” He looked down at his papers again. “We’re done here.”

  I knew better than to keep arguing. Jake had a tipping point, and if you went past it, there was hell to pay. One time when he went berserk, we practically had to replace the precinct building. Without speaking, I got up and left.

  I didn’t like where this was going. Where it went, I mean. It was already gone. Jake was usually on the level, but here he was, threatening me. If he was getting pressure on this, it was big. Somebody at headquarters was dirty. Connected to The Caster. That was the only explanation. I had a choice to make. I could save my own skin, or I could keep my promise to Marge Bridgeman.

  I spent the rest of the day finding my way to the Crystal Cave.

  ***

  I waited till dark to make a move. The Crystal Cave was near the eastern edge of Magic City, and it wasn’t isolated, really. It was just shrouded in mystery and rumors. Downtown, in the slums, it was like a legend. Some people thought it didn’t even exist. And that was exactly how The Caster liked it.

  The east side was money. Reeked of it. Every day I saw folks like Andy and Marge slaving their lives away with no hope, while these fat cats kicked back and raked it in. The Crystal Cave sat in a sort of crater. There was a big, round ridge of very expensive elf homes, standing like sentinels posted around a deep dip in the land, and there sat the Cave.

  Actually, it turns out it wasn’t even a cave. It was a cabin. Practically a hut. It was made of stone, though, and the stone was impregnated with crystal. Sparkled a lot. I think it was some kind of shield for magic. The only thing The Caster could be worried about.

  I was happy about one thing, at least. The Caster and his Cave had such a reputation, it looked like security was lighter than I expected. Not like he needed any. Nobody was a match for guys like him. Somewhere, there might be wizards who used their magic to help people, but not here. Here, it was a racket.

  The last glow of the sun on the clouds faded from orange to black, and at last I had the blessed cover of darkness. My favorite time to work. I found a spot to hide in the shadows of one of the elf homes and scouted for a bit. All I ever saw were two goons outside the front door. A couple ogres with permanent scowls. I imagined worse, but there was no way I could take either of them in a straight fight. And there was no way to know what was inside if I got past them, either. Best I could hope for was that the wizard was alone, figuring he could magic anything that got in, and the ogres were basically an alarm system.

  There was a walkway straight down from the ridge to the front door of the Cave, where the ogres were on either side. That was suicide. My only hope was surprise, and the sidewalk was not it. My vantage point was a hundred feet to the side, where it was just a little bit darker. The hill down to the Cave was partly grass, but patchy, and mixed with areas of gravel. I had an idea. It was going to hurt.

  I checked my pistol. Still there. I checked my handcuffs. Still there. I checked my resolve. Not as strong as the hardware, but still there. I thought of my chat with Jake. This is how omelets get made. I could still pull out. Jake wouldn’t be happy I came here, but it would blow over. I could stroll the slums and slap hands.

  I just couldn’t look in the mirror.

  There was a little bottle in my pocket, and I took it out, popped the cork, and downed the contents. I grabbed the belt on my coat and snugged it. This was it. After a deep breath, I leaned forward and to the left, and took off down the hill.

  I could only guess the ogres had never seen an egg in a trench coat rolling down a hill, but I got the surprise I was after. I felt some nicks and chips on the way down. If I survived, I’d be sore in the morning. At the last moment, when the ogres realized this wasn’t for fun and I wasn’t stopping, they began to pull weapons, but by that time I was slamming into them. Into one, anyway. There was lots of cracking going on. Most of it was the ogre’s bones against the side of the Cave, but some of it was mine. The pain shot through me like a sword, and I felt a nasty rupture in my right side. Not a clean break. I’d be OK if nothing else happened, but it hurt bad.

  The other ogre I managed to catch with my legs and knock off balance while I was slamming into his partner, but it didn’t delay him long. I wasn’t as quick as Stu used to be, but I rolled to my feet and had my Glock out before he did. One shot and the soft tissue in the ogre’s chest got a lot softer. If the ogres were there as an alarm system, I guess it went off.

  I blasted another shot into the lock on the door and kicked it in. I’d never done that with a crack in my side, and it hurt like blazes.

  Inside, the room felt small. It was about twenty feet square, but cluttered. There were shelves and baskets and stuff everywhere, with glass jars and bottles and bowls all over, filled with liquids and plants and goo. The only place in the room that was clear was the middle, and that’s where he stood.

  It was The Caster. He was old, with thick, white, firecracker whiskers and deep ravines in the skin across his face. He was barefoot, with a pair of simple, brown slacks and a floppy, white pullover shirt. I half expected a pointy hat, but his thin, matted hair was bare. In an instant, I had the Glock aimed at his torso. He spoke, and his voice was deep and penetrating.

  “Welcome, Mr. Dumpty. It’s been a long time now, but I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Expecting me?” I said.

  “I knew you couldn’t resist tracking me down sooner or later. It’s your nature.”

  “It’s my nature to blow a hole in you if you try anything. You’re coming with me.”

  “Nonsense,” said the wizard. “You came because you have a death wish. You came to join your brother.”

  I looked past him to a shelf on the far wall. There was a curved white piece of shell, about a foot across.

  “You,” I said. “You bastard.”

  We were done talking. In a flash, he flicked a finger and a dart of sparkling powder flew across the room. I squeezed my trigger twice as I felt the pressure of the magic powder reach my face. Then, it dissipated, and the wizard was on the floor.

  He wasn’t dead. Not yet. I pulled the tiny, empty bottle from my pocket and dropped it next to him. It twirled in a little circle on the wooden floor. “Protection potion,” I said, “courtesy of Billy Buckmiser. You need more loyal goons, Wizzo.”

  His eyes were wide with shock for another moment, then closed for good.

  ***

  I set the bottle on a rock in Marge Bridgeman’s room, next to the jar and the bowl. Bending over made my side ache, but the crack was on the mend. “I don’t know what these do,” I said, “but see if you can find somebody to tell you. They came straight from the Crystal Cave, and I’m sure they’re loaded with magic. You’ve already paid more than anybody should for these, so I thought you should have them.”

  “Thank you, Detective. Thank you so very much.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Bridgeman.” I let myself out.

  On the street, I stood and inhaled the dankness. Through the gloomy glow of weak neon signs, the thick air swirled with the seedy sounds of sin. I’d have to answer to Jake for going rogue on The Caster, but not now. Now it was just me and Magic City.

  The name’s Dumpty. Frank Dumpty. I’m with MCPD.

  Introduction to “Living with the Past”

  “Living with the Past” marks Dayle A. Dermatis’s third appearance in Fiction River. Her previous stories appeared in our fifth volume, Hex in the City, and our seventh volume, Fantasy Adrift.

  About the inspiration for “Living with the Past,” Dayle writes, “I’m in the middle of a series of urban fantasy novels featuring Nikki Ashburne, fo
rmer party girl and ghost magnet. This story takes place right after the events at the end of Ghosted (the first novel in the series), when Nikki’s life has pretty much gone up in smoke.”

  Like so many good series characters, Nikki narrates her own adventures, and somehow manages to make each one stand alone. If you haven’t yet read Ghosted (and you should), then “Living with the Past” is a good introduction to Nikki and her slightly off-center world.

  Living with the Past

  Dayle A. Dermatis

  It’s a well-known legend that the ghost of Marilyn Monroe haunts a mirror next to the lower-level elevator of the famed Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood—which is, in fact, only partly correct. Two things:

  One, she haunts the first-floor ladies room for the most part, although she can go anywhere she really wants.

  Two, it’s not Marilyn. It’s a Marilyn impersonator. The real Marilyn had died at her home in the tony LA community of Brentwood, so it didn’t make sense she’d be haunting the Roosevelt. But nobody thinks about that.

  On this morning, she’d chosen to waft into my room. I was sprawled facedown across the king-sized bed in a pair of navy-and-white pinstriped silk pajamas with white satin piping on the edges, which I’d been wearing for longer than I care to admit. A tray with the remains of a caramelized onions and smoked mozzarella scramble sat on the floor, because no matter how miserable I am, I can still eat. I’d gone back to drinking coffee, though; recent events had put me off tea in a major way.

  A tall screen of dark wood carved with ornate slats hung between the sitting room and bed area, and the late-morning sun behind it cast bright streaks of light across the bed.

  The ghost of a former friend/rival of mine, Asia McBride, was pacing the room, because even in death, she was still annoyingly perky. She was, in fact, lecturing me on pulling my life together, which is ironic given that she died of an overdose—and stayed dead—and latched herself onto me because she didn’t know how to deal with being dead, and what with me seeing ghosts and all, I was suddenly the Los Angeles-area expert on guidance and psychology of the recently and not-so-recently mortality-challenged population.