Calling Card (part 2)

Calling Card

(part 2--conclusion)

Shane D. Parker

The sun lay like a tattered orange ribbon on the dark waves.

Royce looked around and winced. There were splinters in his brain. He placed both hands on his temples and pushed hard. His vision swam briefly but when it returned the pain was a little less.

He was on a beach and it was nearing sunrise. He propped himself up. His elbows dug into the damp sand and the tide crept in and frothed around him. How long had he been here?

He became aware of movement off his right near the corners of his vision. He felt his pockets and found nothing. The Walther had fled its holster and hell if the ocean hadn't swallowed it already. He was wearing the same clothes he had been when...

--Be seein' ya reeeeal soon, ol' hat!

A flash of something. Crawling around in the dark with nothing but the ragged tearing of his breath. He was being chased down by something inhuman. Something beyond explanation. But every time his hands began to make a blur in front of him—a sign of light—he was forced to turn a corner and feel hope slip away once more. His destruction was imminent. Then the pain and that metallic thudding sound.

Seagulls hopped on the shore, squawking. Something had drawn them into a twitching huddled mass. Suddenly a little boy ran over to them, scattering them into a white shrapnel explosion of feathers.

He saw Royce and began running over to him, bare legs pumping. His shadow seemed to race wildly in front of him in the predawn light.

“Hey, mister. You gotta be more careful. You'll drown if you sleep on the beach. Mom says so.” The kid said, breathing heavily.

“That just so? Say, where am I exactly?” Royce said, smiling. He definitely wasn't anywhere near Olympic City. Its beaches were gray smears of shell-flecked sand pockmarked by tide pools where shore crabs endlessly scuttled.

The kid's eyes scrunched up. “You don't know?”

Where's the goddamned basement? Where's 'piss-eyes'?

Royce shook his head, padding his pockets. “Not really, buddy. Did you see anybody leave me here?”

The kid looked back over his shoulder where the shore of the beach tapered up to backyards with beach access patios occupied by barbeques and lawn chairs. Every house seemed to be some variation of pastel pink or green. A woman in white chinos stamped her feet down a short flight of white cedar steps, hollering the kid's name. He couldn't make out what it was, but it sounded like Tucker–maybe. Or she was screaming, “Fucker” loudly at what Royce could only guess was barely seven in the morning.

“No”, possibly-Tucker said, “but you can't sleep on the beach. I fell asleep once ‘cause I ate too many watermelons and then I got took by the water. Daddy saved me.”

The kid was barely potty-trained. The only information he'd be getting would be a halting explanation of why dog’s noses are cold.

“Well, sounds like your Dad's one heck of a swell guy.”

“Yeah. Then he spanked me.”

Royce grunted. “That your mom runnin' over here, kiddo?” He pointed to the frazzled woman rushing over, kicking up sand as she went. Her eyes were dark emeralds of fury. An expensive looking purse jerked and twisted through the air on a thin strap that looked as if it might snap with her next stumble through the sand. She gasped and stopped at the tideline.

“Tucker J. Marsh–”

Her voice lopped off. Royce imagined she probably thought it might be a bad idea to say the kid's whole name. Royce tried a smile. It felt all right on his face. He'd play the angle.

She snapped her fingers sharply and the kid went to her, clutching her pant leg.

“Mommy! The man was sleeping on the beach and I told him it wasn't good to do that because daddy had to save me like that too. Right, mister?”

“Go back to the house, Tucker. Help your father pack the things you'll be bringing to Auntie Sash's.” Her features softened. She didn't return the smile, but she no longer had that poisonous gleam in her eyes.

Royce began to speak, “I'm wonderi--”

“Are you a drunk?” She interrupted.

Royce thought for a moment. “Not now.”

She take a step back as he stood up on rubbery legs. His shoes squelched. The socks inside were soaked through. $2,200 dollars. Ruined.

“Are you staying with the Vaughn’s?” She asked.

Royce mumbled something in the affirmative and walked down the beach, leaving her to huff behind. He needed a phone. Not hers.

The beachfront access backyards ran for another couple hundred yards then broke off in a raised parking lot adjunct. Royce walked up a zigzag of stone steps, grateful for solid ground. He looked across the beach which had begun to lighten as the sun steadily rose, gelding the bruise-colored clouds in the sky.

His thoughts turned back to Mr. Echo. To the basement (forever room).

How did he get me here?

The last thing he could remember was that sound. Then everything seemed to drop away beneath the pain. He hadn't felt anything physical hit him. Only the sensation of being struck.

The parking lot contained only four lonesome vehicles, parked respectable distances away from one another. Royce scanned for Echo in the lot and came up blessedly empty. He looked at the small selection; two sedans, one beat-to-shit van and a jeep. Two men milled around the jeep, smoking. The rack attached to the roof contained two surfboards. No one else was around besides a jogging woman in blue reflective gear huffing and puffing on a bridge several yards beyond the lot. He began walking towards the closest vehicle; the van, when an ugly thought came to him.

If his gun was missing, what else did he have, exactly?

Both pants pockets came up empty, but he already knew that. He checked his lapel pocket and the two stitched into the breast lining of his suit. Nothing.

Stranded, soaking wet, and still very unsure of where he was, Royce descended the sun-bleached Formica stairs leading down to the main boardwalk promenade where already a few people milled around.

He didn't see the bald guy approach until he was at his flank.

Tanner spun, fists raised. The bald guy was wearing a gray pinstripe suit. Had he seen him at the gallery? Yes. Almost certainly, yes. Baldie laughed and held up his hands.

Where the hell did Mr. Clean come from anyway?

He hadn't noticed anyone else except for the two smokers by the jeep.

“Whoa, there, stud. Message for you from your new employer.”

“I ain't got an employer. I don't even have a wallet, asshole” He spat.

“Your employer has informed me I should refer to him as Gunther. For your benefit, of course. 'Gunther' feels your belongings are safer with him.”
“By 'safer' do you mean burned to a crisp?”

The bald guy nodded.

Royce scoffed. “Figures, don't it? Just renewed my license.”

“Here, take these and walk north.” He held out an older model flip phone. And a business card. Royce looked at the card. Strange symbols in raised black against the bone-white of the card. It made his eyes hurt to look too closely.

Royce stared back at the man. He made no move to grab them.

“I'm assuming if I don't you have orders to kill me. That about right?”

The bald guy smiled and looked away, almost bashfully.

“Well, our employer was not specific about what to do should you refuse. He expected you might so he told me to...”

Baldie opened his coat. Inside, resting on a thick strap of leather was a wicked looking dagger. Sunlight winked off its polished edge.

“...be creative.” Baldie finished.

There was nothing to be done. Even if he were quick enough to take down the bald bastard without getting stuck by his knife, how far would he get anyway?

Baldie answered his internal question by nodding somewhere behind Royce. Royce turned on his heels and saw the two smoking men. They were now resting their arms on the steel railing overlooking the promenade. They nodded back and any hope Royce had–any seeds he'd begun to plant, were spoiled before they took root.

Royce snatched the phone and the card away. He snorted. “So, am I supposed to call--?”

The phone buzzed in his palm. It was his own cell phone number calling. Bastard.

“I'd start walking if I were you.” Baldie said, smirking.

Tanner flipped the phone and pressed it to his ear.

“Mr. Tanner!” Royce was less than surprised to hear the jubilant voice of the man that called himself Gunther. “It is a pleasure to know you made it through the rip. All appendages intact, I hope.”

“Rip?” Tanner asked.

“Yes. How you left. Did you think you'd be walking out the front door?”

“Are you a void walker? Some kind of time demon?”

“Void walker...” It sounded like he was tasting the word, feeling it. “I like that. Sounds ominous.” Gunther chuckled. The sound made Tanner's stomach sink even lower. His feet squished and splashed on the pavement as he did what he was told; walk north.

I'm a good little dog, aren't I? He thought bitterly.

Royce had found that often in his life when things looked like shit, a solution always presented itself. This was the first time he'd ever felt truly trapped. He was about to become a prisoner with a life sentence. Only, he felt the sentence would be short. And the devil was in the details.

“Listen carefully, Royce, as I am a man that cannot abide repeating myself. Less than a mile inland, past the residential squats you'll find Ardentia Avenue. At its eastern intersection, Lowell Street, you'll find a bookshop. It is called Literally Out. You will enter the shop. My men inform me the owner is there and will be there all day. He is a robust fellow. You shouldn't have trouble spotting him.”

Tanner felt the weight settle back in his chest. It hunkered down like a large dog finally finding the perfect spot to while away its last days.

“You want me to kill him? You think I'm your personal fucking hit-man now?”

“You'll be my own personal shoe-shine boy if I felt so inclined.” Gunther said this with a rage of its own calm sentience. It became clear that Gunther was angry. Very angry.

“Now, you sniveling vermin, keep listening. When you meet this man you will introduce yourself as a procurator of rare poetry. You'll ask if he has any collections by Robert Flotsam. He will search the catalog and retrieve nothing as this poet does not exist, but, this will be your segue into handing him the business card you now possess. I should mention also, do not attempt to write anything on the card or alter its symbols in any way. Doing so will result in your immediate death.”

Tanner listened carefully, parsing the information as he'd always done. The details stuck in his mind like flies to honey. He'd always been great with details and his memory had never failed him.

“That's it? I give him the card and then walk away?”

“That's exactly right. After you give him the card, walk out and then go whichever way you choose.”

You mean walk out and get picked up in a black van a block later. Then it's not long before I have another hole in my body—somewhere along the brainpan.

“Goodbye, Mr. Tanner. For now.” Gunther hung up.

Tanner walked north towards the colorful bungalows shining in the sun, the small slim card in his breast pocket weighing down his every step.

****

Harrison Whelks watched the living dead swarm over the isolated country farmhouse, limbs grasping through the boarded up windows. One of the ghouls had reached a whole arm up to its shoulder through a hole in the barricaded door. It twisted its gray fingers through a blonde girls hair and tugged viciously. A black man aimed a pistol right between its eyes and a dark hole appeared in the things forehead as the gun cracked. It wobbled back a step then dropped like a sack.

There was little gore in that shot. Harrison liked it that way.

He appreciated the subtlety of b-movie horror. It was raw; unpolished. It lacked the slick veneer of modern horror movies. But damn if that didn't make it scarier.

The small microwave behind him chimed. He rolled away from the desk and grabbed a paper plate off the filing cabinet. He kept a small Tupperware container filled with plastic sporks in the cabinet directly below it, next to the back ledgers and an assortment of old issues of Supernatural America, his favorite schlock read. The newer issues he of course kept in a rack up front. No one ever bought those.

Harrison, or Harry as he was better known, picked up the burrito and placed it on the plate. Its egg and cheese guts oozed out of the tortillas flank. He swiped his finger and plopped the morsel in his mouth.

The drama played out on screen as Harry sporked a hefty dollop of steaming hot breakfast burrito in his mouth. The zombies had overrun the interior of the house. They milled around, blood oozing, pus spurting, teeth gnashing. He smiled, content.

What could be better than a microwave breakfast in front of a horror flick? Didn't matter how many times he'd seen this one. It still gave him that giddy thrill the part of his reptilian brain craved. Blood and guts; the secret avarice of humanity.

From the depths of the shop, he heard Mary groan. He rolled his eyes, knowing what was coming.

“Harry, for God's sake. Do you really want the whole shop to smell like a 7-11?”

He took only a second to think about it.

“Yup!”

A moment later she appeared in the small out of the way alcove they used as an office/break room. “Well, how do you think it looks to customers who come in expecting that book shop smell? It’s part of the attraction people still have for paper books, Harry.”

This had been her argument for years now. Ever since that Kindle thing had come out. It had gotten worse since one of the three branches of the Santa Cruz County Library had closed their doors for good. They'd driven by twice to make sure they could believe it. On the second go-round, Mary had hung her head and wept silently on their way to open the shop. She'd been despondent all the rest of that day.

“I'll put a fan on or something. Cripes.”

“You do that. Do you want to do partials today or should I suffer again?”

Damn she could be smarmy sometimes.

“No, Mary. I'll get to them lickity split. 'Lemme finish my breakfast now?”

She scoffed as she disappeared back into the depths of the store. He heard her mumbling something about bran muffins. He smiled. She was a great pain sometimes, but a joy to have around the store. Truth be told she worked at least twice as hard as he did. She was the face he wanted Capitola to see. His jowly, beard-flecked face wasn't exactly the warmest welcome.

He polished off half the burrito in two bites, warm cheese running down his chin. He'd been warned about his diet, his cholesterol, his blood pressure. He'd been given the solemn proclamation from Dr. Hanso that he needed to do something different or he could expect a very rough transition into middle age. But, the way Harry figured—why live life doing anything other than what you love to do. He loved cheesy horror flicks, books, and eating. As far as he was concerned, not only was the American dream real and attainable...but it also was ready in less than two minutes and forty-five seconds.

There were times when he would have a fleeting thought—more like a flash in the pan image of him traversing the crumbling castles of Ireland or maybe raising a boot-shaped mug of beer while a well-endowed blonde served him steaming links of crackling sausage at Oktoberfest...but ultimately the scene reel skipped with no fanfare and no regret from Harry.

He was Happy. Even if business had taken a fairly steep dive the last few years. He'd make due. He always did.

7:56. Time to exit his little chamber of solitude. He thumbed the power button on the remote, tossed the paper plate and spork into the half-filled waste bin near the computer and made his way through the cramped labyrinth of bookshelves to the front of the store.

Mary approached him as he exited the stacks.

“You've got an interesting one today, Harry. Take a look.”

She nodded in the direction of the front window. Harry could see only a man leaning up against the broad scaly trunk of the palm outside.

“Interesting how, exactly?” He inquired. Nothing out of the ordinary about the guy. He could maybe stand a quick run-through with a comb and maybe a shave would--

Then he saw the suit he wore was wrinkled and shone wet. Both his legs were covered in thick clumps of sand. Did he walk from the beach? And what was that expression on his face...

He reminded Harry of the one and only time he'd been called to jury duty. The guy on trial was up for three counts of armed robbery and one count of evading arrest. He and two other pals had knocked over Galahad's Bistro, a successful deli and market that operated inland. Best place for spare ribs in Capitola, as far as Harry had been concerned. They'd gotten away with the cash, but in the ensuing chase the other two guys had fled successfully, leaving their partner (Harry had forgotten his name) behind without a thought. His face when the judge called him up to the stand...that's the way this guy looked now. Rigid, stern jaw, yet apologetic eyes.

“Handsome fella.” Mary said, smiling. “Bet’cha he's regretting the morning walk on the beach right about now though.”

“Careful, now. I could tell your husband. You big flirt.”
Mary gasped. “I never flirt...I do look though.”

“Well,” Harry said, fishing the keys out of his back pocket. “let’s let the big lug in.”

He said good morning in a big game-show host voice as he swung the glass door wide into the sunshine. The man stepped inside.

His shoes, expensive ones, squished audibly.

Mary smiled at the man and said her own how-do-you-do’s, eyes roaming like a lint-roller. The man smiled briefly, looking around.

Harry filled the air. “I like the early risers. Men after my own heart.” He said, patting his ticker. He waved his hand out to the stacks, indicating the shop was open for his browsing needs. “Take a look around and if you have any questions...see the self-help section.”

Harry waited a moment for the joke to land. It almost always got a laugh, or at least a chuckle. Mary rolled her eyes and dug into the partials. The man did not laugh, but he smiled courteously.

“That won't be necessary. I know exactly what I need.” The man said in a rigid voice.

Harry straightened. “Well, that makes it all the easier, doesn't it? What are you looking for?” Harry tried not to draw attention to the man's suit. How it had begun to wrinkle and sag. Something was off with this one. Barely mid-morning and the guy was full suited up, looking like he just washed up on the beach.

Drunk? Stoned?

No, the only thing Harry could smell was the burrito-scented air mingling with Mary's perfume.

Crazy?

Yes, that was closer. Maybe. But crazy shared the same sleep schedule as lazy, generally. It didn't like to wake before noon.

“My name is...” He paused suddenly, unsure. “...Richard. Richard Bookman.”

Harry couldn't help but lift his brow. He quickly glanced over at Mary who was pretending to leaf through her gray notebook, ears pricked.

Go on, 'Bookman', keep talking. This may be an interesting day after all.

“I'm looking for any works by...” His voice spun out as something caught his attention by the entrance door.

A bald man in a suit filled with muscles opened the door and stepped inside.

Harry said hello to the newcomer, hoping he didn't appear as surprised as he felt. Two customers waiting for the store to open was a miraculous thing. “Good morning!” Mary piped in a sugary falsetto.

Harry wondered if there was a new hardback out today. They were normally dead until late morning, sometimes even early afternoon and even then it was usually bored housewives snagging the latest Pamela Riley paperback. Something with a lurid title; Sensual Amnesia had been the last they'd received.

But Richard Bookman; A.K.A: Mr. Sloshy didn't look like the romance hack type—and the other early arrival Harry would have pegged for a Ron Sterling fan—or if hard-boiled fiction wasn't his deal, most certainly nonfiction. Possibly about the Holocaust or Harrier Jets.

Bookman's adam-apple bobbed up and down as the bald man passed him.

He said good morning to both Harry and Mary.

To Bookman, he said, “Hey’a 'ol top. How's tricks?”

****

Tanner's tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth at the sight of Mr. Clean waltzing into the store. “Heya, 'ol top.”

He disappeared into the tall shadowy stacks. He was out of sight, but Tanner's gut told him he was watching. Peering through old copies of books no one's touched in years. That's the exact reason he was here.

Fuck you, you bald bastard. You'll get yours.

Tanner mentally shook himself. Just give the fucker the name. Wait. Then give him the card. Say your lines and leave. Maybe you can leave. Maybe he'll let you.

Him. Gunther.

Piss-eyes.

Tanner filled his mind with “maybes” and asked for any copies of the mock author. Part of him wanted the fat guy to wrinkle up his nose. He wanted him to say, “Look, bub. I'm not an idiot and it's too damn early for jokes. Take your soggy ass and your fake name and bring it to some other guy's time zone.”

He'd almost wished his appearance alone would send a warning message. Wet sand clumped to his expensive shoes. His jacket dripped and his hair was a wet mop of saltwater. He had been careful to walk in the shadows even, to not let the sun dry him.

But another part of him stalked these thoughts and extinguished them one by one. It was the part of him that believed in “maybes”.

The fat man asked the woman at the counter, Mary, to look up the author. After a moment she looked up regretfully.

“Sorry, honey. I'm not seeing him here. Maybe the name is misspelled. “Flotsam”, you said?”

He confirmed the spelling of the name and again she came up empty, as expected. Now he knew the next bit, but hesitated. In his mind's eye he saw Mr. Clean thumb back a well-oiled hammer. He saw him aim the barrel through the stacks. Plan B; a bullet first through Royce, then another few slugs for the fat guy and the broad.

Tanner nodded, thinking. “Tell you what, if you happen to run across anything by him, give me a call. Here's my card.”

Tanner's heart pumped faster. His fingers slipped inside the damp pocket. He watched his hand extend in slow motion, the card leaving his fingertips and entering into the fat man's sausage link fingers.

“What's your name, again?” Tanner asked, knowing he hadn't given it yet.

“It's Harrison, bud. Most people call me—”

Harry? Was that what he was about to say?

Harry had only taken a cursory glance of the card as he said it, but Royce watched as Harrison/Harry-to-his-friends lifted a blotched hand to his temple as if struck by something there. His eyes grew wide and Tanner watched, amazed, as the man's pupils seemed to swim against the cornea.

The card fell from his nerveless fingers and floated, spun, then landed face-down on the floor.

****

An icepick slid deep into Harry's brain.

At least that what it felt like.

Coldness swept his forehead and a sudden shocking pain lashed at him, seemingly from within. He'd had migraines before, but this...this was like a pocket nuke went off directly in his mind. He had only the dimmest perception someone had been calling his name. Was it Mary? It sounded like her, but distorted.

Oh, God, I'm having a brain aneurism. This was his thought as Mary asked him again if he was all right. Bookman had taken a step back and looked at him carefully. As if he expected Harry to explode at any second.

“Everything all right?” Harry heard the guy say.

That distortion was going away. The pain began to subside also. Mary shook his shoulder.

“Harrison, what's wrong? Headache?” She asked. Her eyes kept darting from Harry to Bookman.

“I think so. Just a little hiccup in the cerebellum.” Bookman had already begun heading towards the door.

“Take some aspirin. Or something.” Bookman called back as he left, shoes squishing. Harry bent down and picked up the card once more. He turned it over, barely acknowledging Mary's voice.

“Go relax for a bit. Watch television. I'll handle the other customer.”

Harry nodded and began walking back through darkness of the stacks. Movement caught his eye from the aisle next to him. It was dark, but Harry clearly saw a bald head bobbing towards him through the partition. As the two men passed, the bald guy nodded at him and smiled.

Harry huffed into his office chair, unsure of the events so far. He should probably take something. Mary kept Tylenol in a desk drawer.

But the scissors in the middle drawer.

He needed those.

They were important now. They hadn't been before, but before was then and now was now. It was as simple as that.

He opened the drawer and saw them half buried in the clutter, the orange ergonomic handle sticking up. The day was just beginning and he had an important job now.

The fan was plugged in. No, it didn't need to (did it?) be.

No, not just a job. A mission. Didn't matter if it was off. Fans don't need to be plugged in when it's August. It still sucked juice.

That's why you had to brush your teeth in the dark.

I am tiredIam tiredI am tired tried eating myself to death but here I amfatANDfat

A drop of snot dripped onto the carpet as Harrison Whelks unplugged the fan. He was crying. Had he been crying long? The thought didn't matter right then. All that mattered was the job.

Hot tears stung his cheeks.

He loved his mother, dead four years this summer. She died at the breakfast table. Her heart gave out over a plate of runny eggs. Hugeshewas HUGE I'll behugeTOOcause my plate is TOO FULLtoo full of–

Harry pinched his fingers together through the handle holes, then spread them out, points gleaming.

He cooed sadly as he drove the points into the empty wall sockets.

****

No black van came.

No one stopped him outside.

He waited at the corner of Ardentia, next to a bakery touting, “Best Croissants in Capitola!” under a red and yellow overhang. A newspaper kiosk next door carried the Capitola Times. “California's Leading Headlines!” it read.

He watched as Mr. Clean came out of the shop. He didn't hurry, but his strides were brisk and officious. He approached Royce and held out a manila folder.

“Here's your money, stud.”

Royce spat on it. A glob ran down, leaving a dark smear.

Baldie let the folder fall to the pavement. He shrugged.

“Mr. Echo will contact you sometime in the future. Don't ask when and don't ask how. Now, you're free to go. Just remember: you work for him now. Don't try and hide. Don't get any stupid ideas. Go on back to Olympic City. Rent a loft or something.”

“Can I ask you a question? You—not Gunther or Mr. Echo or whatever else he wants to call himself.”

Baldie smiled. “Go right ahead.”

“Why him? In there...what did he do?” Tanner asked.

“He sinned. He's a sinner and now he's going to hell. Or he's one name in a hundred on a hit-list someone printed up because yackity yack yack blah blah blah. Or maybe he got too close to a government cover-up. Or he's been targeted by the occult”– he snapped his fingers at Tanner. “–better yet, the Yakuza.”

“Fuck you.” Royce said in a dead voice.

“No, stud. Fuck you. It doesn't matter 'why'. You don't live in 'why land' anymore. Now you live in 'when land'. Get it?”

“That card...why a card? If you creeps can move the way you do...the way you brought me here...” He stopped, unsure how to finish the sentence.

“Why would a man like Mr. Echo risk his many assets? Outsourcing to hitters is becoming a dangerous game. Dangerous mostly because their consciences become a liability.”

“What were those symbols on the card? What do they do?” Royce asked. He was afraid to hear the truth, but he knew his nights would be spent lying awake, staring up at the ceiling–a million variations and scenarios chasing themselves through his brain.

“It's old magic. Real old. Don't think about it, stud. You just get through it however you want. S'long as you don't go running off. Got it?”

Tanner got it.

He walked into traffic. A sedan's grill missed his kneecap by inches as it shuddered to a halt, brakes squealing.

“You freak!” A voice shrieked behind him. He stopped at the corner as the disgruntled driver peeled off. He stared at the folder, still laying on the ground on the other side of the street. Baldie became a distant figure, lost among the people walking.

The people smiling.

The people shopping.

A few walked past the folder, not noticing it on their way to their normal jobs in their normal lives, but one or two had glanced down, curious.

A cruiser screamed through traffic. It threaded along two ambulances, sirens warbling into the day.

Royce Tanner lifted his chest and drew in as much breath as he could. He let it out in a shuddering sigh.

Then he crossed the street.