Mysterious Cairo (4 page)

I'd heard enough. I broke Jennie off just as she was getting to the "what I want you to do" part of her story. I cleared my throat and said:

"I don't do house calls."

She looked confused. "Pardon? I don't understand."

I looked at my watch — pointedly. "I don't do any cosm-hopping, sweetie; I can't go after your father."

Jennie looked at me and laughed — I can't tell you what this does to my "disinterested" act. Maybe she thought I was being funny, or maybe she was cracking up; I didn't know. I
did
know I didn't like it, though. All the laugh did was remind me that she
was
Mrs. Burban, willing or not.

"I wouldn't expect you to,
handsome,"
the accent on the appellation was intentional — I guess I deserved it after the "sweetie" crack, "If I wanted to hire a hero I wouldn't be here."

That stung a little, but it was no more than I'd been telling her. "I don't see how I can help you, then."

"What? Haven't you been listening?" She shook her head, "I want you to find my
husband,
not my
father!"

This was getting a little too strange, even for me, "Wait a minute ... this guy is responsible for I don't know how much sorrow and destruction, not to mention your father's condition and your current . marital status, and you want him
back?"

Now, she was getting angry,
"Of course I don't
want
him back!"

"Then —"

Pulling out the necklace, she shoved the ankh in my face, "If he dies, you
idiot,
I'm
dead!"
Then she sat and glared at me. The cigarette, unlit, was crushed between her fingers.

Not to mention your father ...

I thought about it. God help me, but I was actually considering taking this case. It may sound stupid, but in the last hour or so I'd developed some sort of respect for Mrs. Jennie Burban (I couldn't think of her as Mrs.
Max
Burban, no matter how hard I tried).

Not trust, but respect.

Besides, I figured that, with Burban out of the picture for now, Jennie's got to be controlling the purse-strings — and it was a hefty purse.

But that didn't outweigh the negative side to this deal. Den Abhibe, the other gangmembers, and whoever was responsible for Burban's disappearance would be working against me. Sure, I'd bucked the odds before, but this time I'd be going against —

Then my eyes caught Jennie anxiously fiddling with the ankh around her neck. It hit me like a bucket of icewater — the
Two
M's. I jumped up.

"Sorry, Mrs. Burban; I can't help you." I walked around my desk as she rose.

I must admit, she almost turned me around with the jaw-drop and the stunned look—she'd honestly thought that, after she told me her story, I'd play hero.

Sometimes it helps not being from Terra.

She sat down again, hard.

"I'll pay ten thousand royals—in advance," she stammered. She still couldn't believe it and, after hearing her fee, I couldn't either. Again, I almost said yes. Instead, I grabbed her by the arm and "helped" her up.

She looked at me like I was diseased.

Hey; I can't help it if I'm smart. I started her toward the door.

We never got there.

There was a soft knock and then my door bent back on its hinges and crashed inward. Two goons with Tommy guns stepped in and to the side, doing great impersonations of armed bookends. Jennie wrenched her arm free and stepped back out of my line of sight. The goons' expressions were sufficient to forestall any objections I might have had about their rather melodramatic entrance, but I was keeping an eye on them.

Before I could say anything, I heard Jennie gasp. A rail-thin Arab dressed like a Terran hitman entered the room. He had a black goatee and a red scar across his wide forehead. The evil in his eyes was its own introduction. He grinned.

"I hope, my friends, that I am not interrupting anything?"

I was about to say something smart when something crashed into the back of my skull. It felt a lot like my Scotch bottle. I was trying to figure out who had hit me when my face met something that felt a helluva lot like my floor.

Bill Slavicsek

Angus Cage sat alone at the bar, drinking a screwdriver and drowning himself in vodka, orange juice and memories. Over a year had passed since he first followed Dr. Frest from Terra to this world called Earth. He had agreed to venture into Frest's transportation device, despite warnings that it would be a one-way trip, in order to stop the villainous Dr. Mobius once and for all. Now, fourteen months later, instead of battling Mobius, he was engaged in a war with his own emotions. His only defense against tears, pain and potential madness was the vodka and orange juice he constantly poured into himself. They had been effective weapons once, pushing his feelings back behind a drunken haze. But their potency was waning, and Cage was slowly losing ground to his traitorous emotions — once joyful companions now turned enemies.

He threw back the last of the liquid and felt it burn its way down his throat. He waited for the alcohol kick to hit him, but nothing happened. The enemy was winning. Cage could feel hot tears burning behind his eyes, soldiers seeking a path to victory. But if he allowed the tears to flow, to well and run in salty streams down his rough cheeks, he knew he would be overcome by the emotions he sought to keep buried. He slid the empty glass across the counter, blinking away the enemy's advance scouts.

"Hit me again, Abdul," Cage ordered, calling for reinforcements of his own. Maybe the next batch of vodka-and-orange-soaked ice soldiers would grant him the oblivion he desperately sought this day. Maybe ...

"This time, Abdul old friend, hold the juice," Cage added, deciding that desperate times called for desperate measures.

Cage watched the bartender intently, making certain that he wasn't adding or subtracting anything important to his glass. He watched the heavy Egyptian scoop ice into the short, wide glass, then, unaware that he was doing it, he licked his lips as clear liquid sloshed from the tall bottle to splash over the ice. He was so focused on the simple task the bartender was engaged in that he barely noticed the change in temperature that signalled a new arrival to the quiet, nearly deserted gin joint.

The door to back-street Cairo opened, scattering the pages of a discarded newspaper on a furnace breeze. One group of pages flew toward the deserted piano, heralding the sporting events of the previous day. Another set of pages, complete with biting editorials and timely commentaries, found its way to the dark booths in the joint's far corner. The front page, however, swirled toward Angus Cage, and he reflexively scanned the bold headlines. It was the morning addition of the
Cairo Clarion,
some seven hours out of date. One block of heavy black type warned that the record heat wave was going to continue. Another, spread out across the top of the page like a proud banner, announced that another person was missing, that another name was being added to the growing list of unexplained disappearances currently making news in the city on the Nile. Cage shuddered when his eyes reached the grainy photograph of a smiling young woman with dark hair. She looked nothing like Clemeta, but the sight of her brought back his memories of the dead woman just the same.

"Clemeta," Cage whispered in an anguish-filled voice as the front page fell away and the burst of furnace air faded. The door, briefly opened, was closed now, a part of his mind registered. Already the inadequate ceiling fans were mixing the hot air with air that was simply very warm. Cage didn't care. The memories he had been trying so hard to keep buried had finally found a clear path to the surface, and the only way to push them back was with a tidal wave of vodka. He reached for the glass the bartender slid toward him. It never finished its journey.

A hand intercepted the sliding glass, catching it neatly before it could reach Cage's groping fingers. The hand was large, powerful, clad in a tight-fitting black-leather glove. Cage knew that hand. It belonged to one of the Mystery Men he had journeyed with from Terra. It belonged to the Guardian.

"Haven't you had enough of these, Angus?" the Guardian asked reproachfully, holding the glass up so that he could sniff its contents. "Whoa! How many of these have you had?"

Cage turned to regard the Guardian with bloodshot, drink-weary eyes. He took in the Mystery Man's outfit without really seeing it, though he did wonder briefly how the man could stand the heat in that get-up. The Guardian wore a black hat and black mask that stretched across his eyes but left his strong, square jaw exposed for all to admire. A long black coat hung open on his tall, powerful frame, showing nothing but black beneath it. The hand not holding Cage's drink carried a diamond-tipped walking stick — the Guardian's registered trademark.

"Give me that, Guardian," Cage demanded, using a supreme effort of will not to slur his words. He thought that he succeeded.

"How many have you had today?" the Guardian asked again.

"Four," Cage answered after a pause. "Only four 
(five? nine? who was counting?) 
if you really must know. Now if you'd be so kind as to return that one to me, I can get on with what I was doing."

The Guardian held the glass just out of Cage's reach, shaking it so that the melting cubes of ice rattled and the liquor sloshed. "It took me longer to find you this time, Angus," the tall man said. "Did you really have to come to this section of town?"

"There's nothing wrong with this fine establishment," Cage snapped. "Why, my friend Abdul here was just telling me that the Overgovernors themselves frequent this pub. Isn't that right, Abdul?"

"Every night they come by for happy hour," the heavy bartender said in a tired, bored voice. "They should be here any minute now — Sesetek, Al-Hebpsa, Wu Han, and a harem of concubines. If you'll excuse me, I must go prepare their tables." The bartender moved away from Cage and his costumed friend, shaking his head at his own joke and muttering, "concubines, indeed."

"Listen, Angus," the Guardian began, "we need you. Have you forgotten your oath?"

Cage felt the accusing words slap him like angry hands, and images of his last moments on Terra flashed across his alcohol-doused mind .

.
.. Frest and the gathered Mystery Men explaining that the villain named Mobius was not dead as they had all been led to believe. He had somehow found a way to travel to other worlds, conquering one after another and leaving dead husks behind him as he went... Frest's damning words, "We have all fought against Dr. Mobius at some point in our careers, and we have all failed to stop him. We each share a portion of the blame for what has befallen these worlds" ... Frest describing a method for going after Mobius, and requiring those who wanted to take up the hunt to make a pledge . His own voice joining the chorus of fateful words, "We, the Mystery Men of Terra, do pledge ourselves to each other and to our quest. We must fight to end Mobius' reign of terror, even at the cost of our own lives" .

"While you've been sitting here drowning your sorrows, Mobius has been winning the war! He calls himself Pharaoh and expands his self-proclaimed Nile Empire in all directions," the Guardian continued, bringing Cage back to the present. "Mystery Men have fallen as fast as the armies opposing him, and all you can do is sit, drink and feel sorry for yourself!"

"Shut up, Guardian!" Cage almost screamed, letting anger fill his voice. "You don't understand ..."

"Understand what? That some woman got to you through feminine guiles or with spiked perfume and you can't get her out of your head? Is that what you want me to understand?"

"I loved her!" Cage shouted. Anguish coursed through him like high-voltage current, and he shook violently with too-long pent up emotion. Then, more softly, he said, "I
loved
her, Guardian. I loved Clemeta and I watched her die. I can't get that out of my head."

"Come with me, Angus. It's time to make Mobius pay for his crimes."

"I can't," Cage wailed fiercely. "He killed her. My God, he had her mummified alive! I can't face him again. Not again."

The Guardian's jaw set angrily. "He killed more than Clemeta that day, Cage. He killed the best part of you as well. If you can't come with me and get back to the business that brought us to this world called Earth, then Mobius has already won."

"I . I think maybe he has," Cage finished sadly.

The Guardian set the glass of vodka down on the counter. The ice soldiers had melted away long ago, and the liquid looked stale and lifeless. It looked, Cage supposed, much like he did.

"When you're ready to join the rest of humanity, Angus, you know where I'll be," the Guardian said, hefting his diamond-tipped walking stick. Without another word, he turned and left the quiet gin joint, walking back into the burning heat of the Cairo night.

Cage felt the blast of hot air as the door opened and shut, but his mind was fixed upon the memory of Clemeta. Her long, dark hair. Her dancing, taunting eyes. Her sharp, red nails. Her exotic, addictive perfume. His memory of her was a blur of hot pain. Whether it was her poisoned perfume or something real, he had fallen in love with her. The means didn't matter when the ends were love. No matter what inspired it, his love for her was strong, deep. It consumed him and filled him with unexplainable joy. Then he watched her die. Mummification. Her organs dried inside her while she was still alive and using them. It was a terrible sight, and now its memory was an open wound deep in his soul. A dry, brittle wound, that was very, very thirsty.