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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Deeper Holes"  You pretend that your phone has buzzed, and take it out. "Shit, I have to go see this guy," you mutter. You glance up at Molly, hoping that she'll be disappointed. She just looks away with a light shrug. Well, fuck you too. Or not. "I'll catch up to Faith at the start of eighth period," you tell her. "It's fifty, remember?" "We won't forget," says Molly, and doesn't even look back in your direction. You swing your pack onto your shoulder and sprint off toward the portables. Gardinhire is just about to the other end of the portables on his way back to the main building when you catch sight of him. You loose a teeth-jarring whistle at his back. He turns; you jerk your head at a nearby portable—the one you keep using. "In here." He stares as you open the door to it, then slowly trudges back the way he'd come. It's dim and musty inside—an air that you've gotten familiar with over the past week—and the floorboards creak under your boots. You drop your pack into a desk and unzip it. You grimace and glance around, looking for some kind of distraction that you can use. It's remarkable enough that you could cajole Gardinhire to meet you here, since you've as little to do with each other as possible on school grounds, so you've laid no plans for getting the mask on his face. You glance at the broken ventilation cover. Use that again? But with what excuse? But then Gardinhire comes in. He stops in the doorway. He's wearing a light blue button-down shirt that drapes over the tops of his knee-length khaki shorts, and even in the dark of the portables he doesn't take his shades off. "Shit, man, how can you see through those things?" you ask him. "What do you want to talk about?" he asks. He's got his hands in his pockets. Dude is scared, you think. But he's trying to play it cool. "Come in and close the door. I ain't talkin' to you where no one can hear." He doesn't immediately move. Either he's thinking of bolting, or he's trying to untangle all those negatives in what you just said. But he does shuffle in, finally. He leaves the door open, though. With a sigh you brush past him and shut it. You feel him stiffen. "Look, man," you say, improvising. "I don't wanna bust up your business, but I know that you don't use. At least, I know you don't use all the shit I been selling you. You're dealin' on your own." "No I'm not." "Bullshit. Then you tell me what you're doin' with it, if you're not dealin'." He doesn't say anything not right away. "I've been sharing with some friends." "You got a lotta friends. And you gotta buy their friendship by comping them weed? Five thousand a month? Shit, man, what I could do with an allowance like you apparently got." "They pay me back." "Uh huh. How much?" His Adam's apple bobbles lightly. "Why do you want to know?" "Because it's bad for my business if your friends are getting a discount relative to what everyone else is giving me. If word gets around that Gardinhire can set you up for less— You are setting your friends up for less than they'd pay if they came to me, right?" "No," he says. "I don't think so. You charge fifty dollars for a joint, don't you? That's what I've been charging them." He seems to realize too late that's not an admission he should have made, for he shifts on his feet. "Oh, so you're making a profit," you softly observe. "That's okay, man. That's fair. You've tapped a market I can't reach. But you see, don't you, that that makes us partners, right? "I don't—" he croaks. "We're partners, because I ain't givin' you no discount, not if you're just usin' with your friends. Are you just collecting on behalf of your friends, and buying for them from me? In that case, you pay four hundred an ounce, same as I charge any other fucker at this school. But if you're my partner, if you're dealing right alongside me, then it's okay that you're paying me only thirty-two dimes an ounce instead of forty. The difference, that's your commission for handling that part of the market for me. Shit, I'm fuckin' impressed if that's what you're doin'. I got other guys doin' the same, buyin' at thirty-two and sellin' at forty. But I had to ask them to go in with me. But you? Fuck me, Princetonian gonnabe Martin Gardinhire set himself up without my needing to say a word. I'm getting a chubby I'm so fuckin' ripped by what you done. But those other guys, they're my partners. And so are you, since you're doin' the same thing they are." Gardinhire's nostrils flare. "If you want to look at it that way," he says, and his voice trembles. "It doesn't matter how I wanna look at it, that's the way it is," you say. "Either you start paying four hundred an ounce—right now, in which case tomorrow you bring me twelve hundred, to make up the difference on what you paid me Monday and what you should be paying me. Or we're partners. Which one is it?" He keeps very stiff and erect, hardly moving, hands still in his pockets. His shoulders shrug. "Okay then. Uh, partners." You grin. "Good. Now, the thing is that my other guys, they tell me who their market is, and I tell them about mine. That way we don't accidentally get in each other's way. So—" You reach into your backpack, feeling your way around the mask, to pull out a notebook and a pencil. "You write down who you've been selling too. I'll write down who I sell to. That way we don't get in each other's way." "I don't think— I mean, my guys aren't the kind of guys that, uh, that you—" Obviously, he's trying to say and not say at the same time that you don't mix with his crowd so you're not likely to try selling to them. Inwardly, you bridle, but outwardly you remain calm. "No, see, here's the thing," you say. "I don't know that you're serving your market well. Maybe you're leaving some money on the table by not talking to everyone you could be talking to. I got a pretty good idea who you're selling to. If you don't tell me who they are, I am going to go nosing around to see if there's any crumbs you're not picking up. So you need to tell me." You push the paper and pencil at him. "Sit down." He does, though it sure looks like his knees don't want to bend. He takes the desk in front of the seat where you put your backpack, so his back is to you. And now he takes those sunglasses off. Swiftly, you pull out the mask and reach around to press it to his face from behind. Gently, you let his head drop to the desk. You've already got your phone out, and with your thumb you dial Caleb. * * * * * "Jesus, is that the bell?" Caleb groans. "I'm going to be late." "Then we're all going to be late. Stop thinking about yourself," you retort. "Anyway, it's not the bell. Christ, we've still got thirty minutes at least." Caleb is in Gardinhire's clothes, but he's not in his mask yet, for it's not come out of your latest victim. Together, you are struggling to get him into Caleb's clothes. Johansson is tying one of his shoes, when he glances up and does a double-take over your shoulder. "Who the fuck?" he says. You stare at him, then whirl to look over your shoulder. A dark shape vanishes from the dirty window. "Who was that?" you ask Caleb. "I didn't see. They just—" You don't hear the rest. You're at the door in five strides, wrenching it open. Outside, you look wildly around. No one is in sight. You pound down the lane toward the main building, but when you're free of the portables you see no one running away. You circle through the portables again, but catch no sight of anyone, except for Molly and Faith Becker and Mindy McAdams, sitting under that tree way off. "Did you catch them?" Caleb asks when you get back. "No, I didn't even see them. Jesus, is that the mask finally?" You lift it from Gardinhire's face and give it to Caleb. "Get back across the way, get into it. Remember, you have to seal it up first. You did remember to bring that stuff, right?" "Yeah, I got it," he says impatiently as he goes to the door. "Just don't be in a hurry to get that guy finished up. I'll need a little while to get things ready." So, you impatiently crouch by Gardinhire, waiting for signs of returning consciousness while fiddling with Caleb's mask. Who was at the window? Just a random passerby? Someone trying to spy on you? Could it have been "Dane"? Or even "Gordon"? How much did they see? You don't much mind being a target; with Gary Chen's guts, you think you can survive anything they might try throwing at you. But if they figure out that Caleb is involved— Well, you don't have the same faith in Caleb's ability to withstand pressure, in either his own form or that of Martin Gardinhire. Fuck, you didn't even have to raise your voice, and you were scaring the shit out of Gardinhire. Oh, speaking of whom, his eyelids are starting to twitch. You drop Caleb's mask onto him. His body briefly wavers, like it's a reflection in a pool that's had a rock dropped into it, and then it's Caleb Johansson lying on the floor next to you. He's breathing, but is otherwise perfectly still. Quietly, you pack up your bag and leave. Across the narrow lane you find someone who looks like Martin Gardinhire laying in the middle of the opposite portable. You pinch his nose shut. He chokes and sits up with a hard start. "Wake up, asshole," you say. "Better get to where you belong before someone tries stealing his old life back." "Jesus," he gasps, and rubs an eye. "Where am I supposed to be?" "Beats me, that's your business. But meet me at the clubhouse at four. We got a new spell to start, and some old business to talk about." Next: "Piled Higher and Deeper" |
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