Calling Card (part 1)

Calling Card

(part 1)

Shane D. Parker

Royce Tanner felt the barrel press hard against his temple.

It was painful, but in its own dull, 'we've been here before and many times' sort of way.

Royce had spun around when he felt the first blow land. He saw long, stringy blonde hair and sunken eyes. It was a solid hit. Kid had great aim.

Royce's vision seemed to slide to the right. Silvery flecks began to shimmer and he went down to one knee. A second blow landed, but it was glancing; only clipping his brow, but it was enough to make Royce stagger back against the red brick wall of the alley. His ass met the pavement, tailbone taking the force. His back instantly froze up.

The kid leaned in close. Close enough for Royce to know the kid had some fairly poor hygiene habits; habits he failed to cover up with the godawful body spray he'd clouded himself with. Once more the cold muzzle of the kid's gun met his forehead.

"Wallet. Watch. Phone...now, fucker."

Must have been crouched behind the dumpster, waiting there like a hobo spider.

Royce couldn't help but smile even as fireworks began to erupt along his spine. "Am I the first of the night, kid?" Royce asked, wincing. He tasted the old familiar copper tang of blood.

The kid opened his mouth to say something.

Royce moved fast.

He had time to get a whiff of whatever the kid had eaten recently--something with a ton of garlic--but then Royce yanked his head away from the gun and hooked his right fist into the kid's jaw. He would have heard it break if it weren't for the sound of the gun going off a few inches from his face. A millisecond light-flare later and the kid had stumbled back, landing hard on his ass. He had one hand tight against the shelf of his jaw and the other gripped the gun. Black metal with a brown wooden grip.

Royce took a moment's pleasure to notice the kid's jaw now hung slightly askew. In his eyes shock and shame mingled with pain and confusion. Royce knew the volatile cocktail very well.

Royce's sport coat fluttered, the metal clasps snapped open and the Walther PPK was in his palm like a hat trick. The kid's eyes registered the movement with wide eyes. There was nothing he could do. Royce Tanner was simply too fast.

Too exact.

The kid squeaked. It was the sound a child made when bedtime came around and the television died with a wink and a thud. Still, he made no move to throw down the gun. That was bad, but what was worse was the rage-stricken cheated look smeared all over his face.

He needed to stop the rage-funnel from growing. And bullets were officially not an option for Royce Tanner.

"You point that at me again, kid and I'll remodel your skull."

Just above a whisper. Just enough to get his attention. Barking at him would have made him twitch and if blondie accidentally fired once, he'd shoot wild until the gun was as hot as Tucson asphalt in July.

And Royce couldn't return the favor. He'd run dry after the docks. But this little viper didn't know that.

Yet.

"Listen up and listen good, shitheel. You picked the wrong guy and on the worst night. That's all you need to know."

The kid's eyes were saucers in the dark. A siren whooped somewhere, blocks off. Maybe near the theater. It wasn't for them, but like never before he needed that siren.

The kid's jaw moved but whatever words he'd meant to say came out in a low, miserable groan. His eyes jerked around like he was trying to see out of the back of his own skull.

"That right there, kiddo, is a broken jaw. How's that pride doin'?" Even in the gloom of the alley, Royce saw the eyes settle back on him, seething green and bloodshot.

Royce nodded. "That's too bad, but here's a few facts: you lost the upper hand and I'm a lot better with this than you are. It's Saturday night in barhop alley and maybe you're thinking, 'hell, I could just draw on him. Right now. We'd even the score. Barrel to barrel. But believe me, I see a muscle twitch and I unload on your greasy face."

He looked like he was trying to say something again. His eyes were staring, chaotic pools of fury, but all that came out of his crooked mouth was a series inarticulate groans.

"Like I said, kid. Wrong guy, worst night...but if you walk that way," Royce pointed to the south end of the alley, "I'll walk this way," then pointed north, "and we'll just go our separate ways. I got better shit to do and you gotta call a hospital...right?"

The kid nodded, still furious.

Royce watch as he shuffled down the alley that emptied onto Carson St. He looked left then turned right and slumped away. Royce snapped the empty PPK back in the holster.

Too close.

And now he was late.

Maybe no more shortcuts through alleys tonight. Not with an empty gun and a shrinking time-frame. He reached inside the breast pocket of his Dorian Cotrana coat and felt inside for the leather wallet. It was still there, thank God.

He thought of the contract holder, client #283. He thought of those yellow eyes that never blinked and the 1,000 watt smile the creep had worn; him sitting there, tall and thin as a reed in that pristine black and red flapper suit. Arched lapels. Starched collar. He sat at a heavy mahogany desk. Its polished surface gleamed and Royce could see the client's reflection. Tanner hadn't stared too long at that though because in the glare, the client's face had seemed somehow bent and hollow, his eyes and nose a dark shapeless smear. It had given him the creeps.

That's when he noticed the bowler hat and bottle of water.

He didn't understand why they both unnerved him, but they did. It wasn't until they'd shaken hands--Royce sliding his warm palm into the cool and clammy grip of the client-that he'd landed on exactly why they stuck out.

He smiled at the client and he smiled back.

There was a layer of dust about a inch thick on the brown bowler hat. The same for the bottle of water.

He'd had a thought then, taking the man in; the single dingy bulb, the bowler hat, the bottle of water--this guy doesn't leave this room. When I leave he'll still be here and possibly another person will come in with other business with him, and possibly more and more. But this is a forever room. With a forever man.

And he's never cracked the seal on that bottle of water.

They were dressing for the scene. An illusion. Or like how an artist will push certain objects into his painting. Not necessarily because it adds vitality to the scene-rather, it grounds it in reality.

Knock it off. You're on the clock, asshole.

Royce Tanner made his way onto Paulson Street and pushed the thoughts out of his head, keeping only the imperative that the client stated specifically: "Don't look inside the wallet. It will spoil your good health."

He hadn't and he wouldn't. The zipper on the wallet hadn't moved a centimeter.

But he felt that familiar itch that he only got when the contract was especially important...or unusual. Tanner liked unusual.

Unusual paid big. And this particular contract would send him straight away to somewhere sunny. A place where the only sound was waves crashing against one another, dark fathoms of lovers rushing headlong into an ancient and insoluble lust.

Half the job was done. The dirty half.

Six blocks passed as he weaved between drunks staggering out of crowded, noisy bars for a smoke and perfumed women laughing-shrill steel into the biting cold. On the corner of Exeter and Wilshire a thaumaturge had gained a crowd of perhaps fifteen people. They jockeyed for position, nudging and shoving.

Royce caught a glimpse of the white lacquered mask bobbing and weaving. Suddenly the street lit up as flames roared over the crowd. A woman shrieked and bolted into the street, narrowly missing a car. The crowd gasped then laughed in delight as her boyfriend ran up Exeter, shouting her name.

Olympic City had a strict ban against the unsanctioned use of the arcane, but it didn't stop a select few individuals from making good money. They'd bribe the cops to look the other way and if they couldn't they'd throw confetti clouds; white hydrite capsules containing an array of colorful powder. It would explode on contact, sending plumes of smoke and colorful flecks into the air. While the 'beats' hitched and coughed, the thaumaturge would disappear down a back alley and reemerge later in the night to try his act again.

Royce moved onto Pelican Avenue, leaving behind the shouts and applause of the small crowd. Pelican met Olympic Way. Here the air carried the heavy musk of cigars and bourbon; smells that made love behind a soft curtain of sound.

Two cigar bars occupied opposite flanks of the street. The Eldritch and The Gray Pelican.

Smoke wafted out their ornate doors and slanted windows, curling around the halogen lampposts that marched down the street. Well-dressed men gathered to hunch against the chill to smoke their favorite brand and talk shop; work, wife, kids, wars.

The alto slowed aimlessly for a time then a saxophone lifted the melody high into the night where it seemed gracefully to ride the air current.

Royce felt the wrinkled creases of the evening smooth out a little and as quick as a hiccup he found himself smiling a little. With a little luck, the blood was behind him now. He thought this, even knowing he'd be walking into The Husk very soon. But after that, maybe he'd come back. His pockets would be a lot heavier then and maybe he'd buy himself a whiskey.

When he came to Legion Avenue he stopped and surveyed the street. A couple blocks back the din had begun to fade. If he listened closely he could still hear the music, but now it seemed ghostly; dissonant.

Over his head, large elms sutured their dark boughs together, a few of the streetlamps guttered, and it seemed the only sound was the click-snock of Royce's tailor made shoes. The entire street was like a cheap horror movie set.

Four more blocks would bring him down Box Street, sloped and misshapen-asphalt cracking-meeting a large rotunda that branched into Old Downtown, now known as "Bum-town" or more predominantly, "The Husk".

There were no beat cops in The Husk. Patrol cars breezed the streets, wheels rolling over the grunge and filth and strewn wreckage of a thousand lives. It was a neglected part of Olympic City-or if you wanted to keep the melodrama; a cancerous tumor eating away at its vestige.

Royce knew walking the streets and back alleys of the husk would be like throwing a rooster in a wolf den. He needed wheels, no matter how short the drive. Something ugly, something the shadows could swarm over and strip down once he was done with it but nothing they'd drool over.

He roamed a while, picking over cheap Paramour's and weather-beaten Wexler's. Then he saw it.

In the driveway of a sparse and drooping house at the edge of Burton Drive, a white Concord sat squatting in the weed-choked driveway.

It had green flecks of moss growing on its windows and rims and the paint had begun peeling in large flecks. Royce wondered if it would even start. He cast a perfunctory glance behind him. Not a soul twitched that he could see.

He reached into his pocket and felt around for what he had begun referring to as his 'quick-key'.

A horrible moment passed as his fingers slipped inside, fumbling around for it but unable to get a hold of the thing. It was slim and liked to hide in the folds of his pocket lining.

At last he gripped it and held it out to the light.

As the Rod met the warm flesh of Royce's hand, its surface which had been ruddy and pockmarked before, now in an instant attained the cast of polished silver. He threaded the thin rod nimbly into place and waited. He felt the bow of the rod pulsing as it expanded and fit the lock. He heard it mold itself into the correct landings and projections. Then after only a few seconds he heard the snick and the quick-key went cold.

He turned the key and got inside, murk and moulde enveloping him. He repeated the process with the ignition and the car grumbled and stuttered its way to life.

"Let's ride, you ancient stack 'a crap." He said to the shadows congregating in the back seat.

Reversing onto the street, he found the switch for the lights and flipped it. Tinctured beams of ruddy yellow light fell on the road. It was scant, but enough to not get pulled over by a roving cruiser and both beams seemed to suggest they would work at least for the time being. He glanced at the chicken-wire covered entrance door to the house and no lights came on. Whoever it was that owned this beast slept soundly.

Royce maintained a steady 20 mph as the Concord creaked down Duncan Avenue. The road was a steep slope lined with cramped houses. It met a rotunda then struck west.

At night and from this distance The Husk had all the features of a picturesque port city vista. Until you got closer and passed the trash can fires and realized that these were the main source of light and heat. The city hadn't thrown anything into the husk for decades, not since Wilson took the chair, so now the darkened streets and murky alleyways were lit almost exclusively by the headlights of Royce's Concord and the bonfires built by slum-dogs and whinoes.

Dirty faces sneered as he passed and men shoved each other aside to see the sight of a car moving slowly along the forgotten labyrinth they called home. After a few blocks something smashed against the driver's side rear door; a bottle, by the sound of it.

Suddenly a man in filthy dreadlocks rushed in front of the car. Royce jerked the wheel and slammed on the brakes, the shriek so loud in his ears he thought his fillings would crack. Dreadlocks swiped the air with a switchblade, baring his yellow teeth.

Royce tapped the PPK against the windshield and the derelict flew off into the darkness. Royce heard his cackles for another half block.

Time had its own rules here. He'd checked his pocket-watch on the descent into the husk and it was six minutes of ten. His meeting was at ten fifteen. Already he was five minutes later than expected and he hadn't even met the street that the dilapidated gallery sat on.

Two more blocks passed by quietly and then he rumbled up to the entrance door. Once the car was parked, he lifted himself out and breathed deeply. The husk stank like the bottom of a flophouse dumpster but it was better than the reek of mouldering upholstery.

The wind rose briefly, sending the scent upwards and Royce could smell rain in the air. Dead leaves scuttled along the sidewalk as he mounted the steps. He knocked twice loudly.

What if they've given me up for a rook?

He looked down at his watch. Almost twenty-five after. Shit, he thought and raised his hand to knock again.

The door swung open and what appeared to be a pig in a pinstriped suit stood there in front of him. Its pink flesh sagged in folds and beneath a knotted bushy brow two beady black eyes stared him down. In its hand a nasty looking revolver was aimed directly into Royce's neck. He noticed the weapon had a cylindrical barrel with oscillating purple lights on it. The pig-man grabbed him by the tie and rushed him into the foyer.

Royce almost lost his balance but he grabbed onto something hard and cold to the touch; a stone hand attached to a statue of a naked man holding a child upside down by the ankles. The child's expression was one of raw agony, his eyes shut tight--mouth open in a silent scream. Royce made the mistake of looking down and saw the statue's stone erection. He shuddered.

He let go of the statue and stood upright, facing the thing that had hauled him in. Now that the moment of shock had dimmed he saw his aggressor and was relieved to see that the swinish features were gone. Only a normal looking bald goon. Except this one seemed especially annoyed.

"You're fucking late, big-shot." Royce's eyebrows raised as the bald man menaced him. He really did sound a bit piggish.

"Tough guy, you hearin' me? Mr. Echo ain't a man to be kept waitin'." Baldy barked.

He stank like vinegar and ozone. Enchanted veneers.

"Who's the mask for?" Royce asked.

Baldie snickered. "Sometimes the populace gets nosy." He jerked his nose to a spot above the door. A brown bag dangled on an elastic rope.

Before he could guess its contents he was grabbed by unseen hands and led through a long length of corridor.

"Easy, boys. I learned how to walk by myself a long time ago."

He shrugged out of their grip. Silently, the one on the left motioned him forward. Both had bowler hats pulled down on their foreheads, casting their features in shadows that seemed never to move.

The walls between paintings were red with dark brown trim that met a lemon cream carpet. The bald man had fallen behind as they rounded a corner, passing a painting of a redheaded belladonna standing on a grassy cliff-side looking over its edge. Dark water met horizon in a flagrant pageant of black, gray, and orange. In the distant waters, a large shadow lurked just beneath the water's surface. The impression was of churning water, frothing as whatever shape heaved its way to the surface.

Soon after that, in a small and dimly lit alcove rested a relief cast in gold of a grinning elderly man. His teeth were filed to points. His eyes leered at Royce as he passed by. More paintings and statues rushed by. They grew more and more lurid and disturbing as Royce was shuffled further on. Around corners and down more hallways. It began to occur to him the gallery had grown in size. Or maybe he'd been given the shorter route the last time he was here. After another bend a door was held open for him by a short, slant man with a ruddy complexion. His oily hair looked almost wet in the light. Beyond, a flight of stairs sheared off suddenly from the door's entryway and then he was descending into the shadows. And he knew exactly where he was going.

If only he'd saved a couple slugs. Just one or two. But no, he was rapidly plunging into the stagnant mouth of the basement that was occupied by a man (was he, really?) he knew nothing about, yet feared immeasurably. Royce Tanner was not accustomed to this feeling. Even as a child he was thoughtful but not creative and found a kind of inspiration in the logical; peace of mind in the unobtrusive.

It wasn't until he reached the bottom and stood once more in the same spartan basement of his client did he realize that for perhaps half the length of the stairs, maybe more, he was leading only himself. The pair of suits and the bald man had remained above.

And there he was.

Client #283-Mr. Echo, stood next to the table, offering his long hand with its perfectly manicured nails. That smile loomed in front of him. Royce attempted a smile in return but it felt strange on his face. He crossed the length to where Mr. Echo stood. Maybe ten paces. He counted. Then he looked for another exit. There was none.

He sat on the chair opposite his client. He unbuttoned his coat and moved to reach for the wallet but stopped when Mr. Echo held out his hand. He sat down stiffly and smoothed his tie.

"Let's relax a moment. You've had a busy night. Business can wait another few moments, don't you agree--Mr. Tanner?" His voice was at once foreign and familiar.

Royce didn't want to relax. Relaxing on a job was always a two-step process. First you relax, then you get a steel-tipped pat on the back for doing such a good job.

"If it's all the same, the sooner we make this happen, the sooner I get to book a flight to Maui."

Mr. Echo let out a laugh that clanged around in Royce's brain. He laughed that same way when I saw him last and I told him he could use a new decorator.

That was nearly 11 hours ago. Now here he sat before him again and once more that feeling he had come back, stronger than ever. The feeling he'd stepped into something he didn't fully understand. The feeling of being inside a very old and very succinct illusion.

"Maui, is it?" Still smiling. Unblinking. "I would recommend New Orleans over Maui. You'd get quite an experience in N'awlins.", he said, mouth yawing hideously to provide the bayou drawl. It took an effort not to reach in his pocket again. He was spooked all right. The expensive Deaxon Sax shirt he wore began to stick clammily to his lower back.

Echo smiled his game show host smile and steepled his incredibly long fingers together, tapping both pointer fingers. "Although, the humidity of either would surely run you afoul. Muggy, muggy, muggy." Echo tutted. "What a shame you won't stay in Olympic City. It seems to agree with you. Let's see--"

Royce saw him open a drawer on his right, but he never took his eyes off Royce. The instincts screamed-Gun!

Royce felt his heart stutter.

Instead of a gun the client threw a manila folder down on the table. It skated across the polished mahogany surface and landed in Royce's lap. He grunted and shot a glance at the client who sat plaintively, fingertips once more laced together. The bare bulb was a lantern hanging in his eyes.

"Is this?--"

"--Payment, of course. Plus an extra $5,000 for a job well done." Finished the client.

How late was I? Not to mention that fiasco of a getaway from the docks. He'd had to pull out every dirty trick in the book and even then he'd run out of there like hell itself was hungry for his soft parts.

Royce held the envelop in his hands and felt the familiar bulk inside shift. It almost made him relax. He still wore the mask. Last thing he needed when he was this close were the chinks to show.

"You always pay this well for a botched job?" He asked after a short laugh.

Royce was amazed that the man's face registered genuine perplexity.

"How so, Mr. Tanner?"

Royce remembered the shrill whine of each bullet that missed his head. He heard again the rounds of his Walther reducing firm flesh to pulp. He still wondered how he'd come away without as much as an arterial splash on him.

His throat felt thick. He swallowed and even though it was difficult he looked into the man's unearthly yellow eyes.

His clients hand outstretched. Moment of truth.

Those nasty, pale fingers held out to him made his skin crawl. He gave the leather wallet to him and the heavy feeling; the feeling that something heavy had anchored itself in his chest gave way a little and he felt lighter. Had it been that much of a burden?

In any case he could leave now. The deal was done.

Royce got to his feet with a mantra in his brain. One he thought he might just repeat to himself over and over until he got back to the shitty motel room he'd been living out of for almost a week.

No more weird jobs no more weird jobs no more weird jobs

He'd only taken two steps before he felt the hand land heavily on his shoulder. He turned around, expecting the face leering into his to be so close that he would be able to smell his breath. But the client was still sitting in that chair, smiling as he unzipped the wallet. How'd he?--

"Please remain until I've had more than appraising glance. If you'd be so kind."

Mr. Echo gestured back to the chair.

Hurry up you piss-eyed creep. I want out' a here!

Royce didn't want to see what the wallet contained. Even though the job had been done and apparently it had been done well, he still remembered the warning about not opening things and his health going south; an almost sweet way of saying, "Mind your business and you have a small percentage of living".

But it was too late. Mr. Echo's smile quivered as if the marionette strings keeping it taught had snapped and the expression that replaced it was hideous in its hungry intent.

"These...are...exquisite." He shuddered.

Royce's skin broke out in a fresh sheen of goose pimples.

"The craftsmanship...bah!" He waved his hand as if swatting the word away. "Craftsmanship is a pallid word for this...this!--divination!"
Echo thumbed intently through something within the wallet. Tanner heard the unmistakable snick-snick of cards being riffed through. Tanner had expected bonds or something. Maybe jewels. That was the mundane thing, but this man was anything but mundane. He was an enigma to a riddle Tanner had no intention of solving.

"Glad you got your money's worth. Pleasure doing--"

"Our business is not yet concluded." Brisk and toneless.

"Patience, Mr. Tanner. Patience."

"I'm a busy man. We're done here." Did he hear the crack in his voice? Royce hoped not. So far, this guy had the upper hand. Royce's gun was still about as useful as a burlap sack full of water.

His client rested one of his bony hands on the wallet. He tapped it restlessly as he spoke. "Aren't you ever curious about these things you deliver? I am no fool, Royce--if you'll allow us a first name acquaintanceship..."

Royce hadn't been aware it was a question. He blinked several times then nodded slowly.

"-excellent. As I've said, I am no fool. I know you are curious to see what's inside? To see what so many men fought for and died for tonight."

"I'm afraid, Mr..."
"You may feel very welcome to call me Gunther. There, now you have my first name as well. My men above have named me several different intriguing names, haven't they?" He said politely. "But I prefer Gunther."

"I'm afraid, Gunther, that you are incorrect. All I know is you wanted something. Now you have it. Our transaction is complete. I don't need or want to see what's inside. It is entirely none of my business." Royce said all of this as plainly and calmly as he could, all the while Gunther/Mr. Echo fixed his eyes on him. They shone bright and clear. It reminded Royce of a child watching a cat with plastic bags tied to its paws.

"I'm going to get up now and walk up those stairs. I'd like one of your men, if possible, to show me the exit--but if they feel so disinclined as to do so I'd be just as happy wandering around until I find my own way out."

Gunther's smiled guttered as Royce finished talking. He rose to leave.

Two things happened almost simultaneously. The table was flung, its bulk heaved like a child's toy. It landed against a wooden support beam and smashed into splinters but as it arced over one of the legs took out the hanging bulb.

Tanner was plunged into darkness.

He dropped, ass first and tucked in backwards, rolling, careful not to snick the floorboards with his shoes. How much did he gain? A quiet four, maybe five feet? Enough space to draw his useless gun.

Which way was the fucking door?--He asked himself, sightless eyes combing the dark. He kept his right elbow close to his side and aimed the gun forward, his left hand remained outstretched.

Back! Directly behind you, asshole. Remember? Back and four steps to your right!

He moved with practice precision. His toe rolled to his heel deftly. His ears strained to hear anything moving. He sensed nothing and yet with some other collected bundle of nerves he felt Gunther close by. Close enough to touch maybe.

Tanner's heart beat a lunatic pace, his jaw clenched and high up in his temples a livid vein pumped adrenaline to his brain in great chugging thuds. His back found something solid.

He whirled around and shot his fist out like a piston only to be blinded by pain.

The wall. He was almost nose to nose with it. He flanked its surface with his side and walked a few feet forward, hoping to connect hip-to-doorknob. He encountered only smooth wall. He backed up several paces more and his hip struck something.

He grabbed for the doorknob and twisted.

It wouldn't budge.

His mind refused the information and he tried turning it harder. It had no give. It didn't even rattle. It may as well have been welded into place.

Royce howled, strafing once more the wall. If he could find a corner of the room, he'd at least have a fighting chance. If he couldn't see a fucking thing, then neither could Gunther, piss-eyed bastard of a fuck that he was.

He pressed a shoulder firmly to the wall and moved forward, left hand splayed out to ward against anything or anyone. The basement wasn't large. In a few seconds he'd snag the corner. Then he'd spin around and wait for either the basement door to be unlocked or Gunther to stumble into him.

But why the hell hadn't Gunther started shooting the minute the bulb was shattered? Why not unload? Gunther had the drop on him...

Something was wrong. The wall kept going. He met no corner.

What the fuck is going on goddammit!?

A voice--Gunther's voice-came from behind him. Very far behind him.

"Be seeing you reeeal soon, 'ol hat!" Tanner glanced back. Gunther was several yards behind him...and he was still sitting at the table which was no longer smashed underneath the light bulb that once more was whole.

His smile, even from this insane and irrational distance was wider than ever before. His hand was waving slowly and pinched between those long fingers was what looked like an index card.

"I'll be seeing you straight away." Gunther said. His voice, now unpolished and ugly; the inhuman bark of something immeasurably evil.

Then pain. He heard a loud metallic thud and then everything went black.

****

(concluded in part two--now available for review)