Mysterious Cairo (5 page)

He reached for the glass of vodka and hefted it. "Abdul," he called, "keep the soldiers coming." Then he tilted his head back and drank.

* * *

"Last call, my friend," Abdul the bartender announced a few hours later.

"Already?" Cage asked, disappointed. He could no longer keep his words from slurring, and he didn't even try. "But the Overgovernors haven't arrived yet."

"Perhaps the heat has kept them away. You know how cool and drafty those old temples and pyramids are supposed to be. Well-stocked ice boxes with pillows and sheets, I hear. Why venture into the heat and sand when you have everything you need inside?"

Cage nodded. "Then give me one more for the road, and maybe a small bottle to tide me over until you open again tomorrow."

"Maybe coffee would be better, my friend ."

"Maybe not," Cage said, and pulled crumbled Imperial royals from his pocket and slammed them on the counter.

"Suit yourself," Abdul shrugged, deftly making the money disappear into his wide, beefy fingers. Then he turned to fix his customer a final drink.

Cage watched the bartender perform his magic when a sudden chill froze the sweat upon his back. He had the distinct feeling that someone was watching him while he watched Abdul, though he was sure the gin joint contained no other patrons. The alcohol in his system slowed his old instincts, but could not eliminate them entirely. He scanned the dirty mirror behind the bar, looking for tell-tale signs of movement in the darkened establishment. Nothing moved, but the feeling would not fade. Someone was watching him, despite his certainty that he was alone with Abdul. He felt a piercing gaze dig into his back and freeze the flesh it found there. He shivered, realizing that he was suddenly afraid. He wished he hadn't left his Tommy gun back at the small apartment he was renting, cursing himself for bringing nothing more lethal than a 9mm Browning and his battered Fedora. What if Mobius or shocktroopers or some crazed villain found him like this — tired, worn out, drunk. Still, Angus Cage had long ago learned to make do with the cards fate dealt him. He slowly spun the bar stool around, letting his right hand drop inconspicuously toward the pistol tucked into the small of his back.

He scanned the eerily quiet gin joint with wide, frightened eyes. He had never felt so scared before in his life, and he attributed the fear to the alcohol dulling his senses. Nothing stirred among the scattered tumble of drink-stained tables and chairs. Nothing moved near the deserted piano with its finger-smudged tip bowl and seat-worn bench. Even the two doors to the rest rooms were closed tight. Cage was about to dismiss the sensation as too many vodka and orange juices 
(the last half-dozen hold the juice, please) 
when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Shadowy booths lined the far wall. Cage turned to inspect them, squinting to see into the blackness they contained. The third booth from the left seemed darker than the others, and when Cage's eyes came to rest upon it he felt his heart skip a beat. Something was moving within the booth, shifting from the bench to the table and back again in what looked like an extreme effort to get comfortable in the confining space. Its shape was alien, as out of place in the booth as Cage himself had been in Mobius' palace those many months ago.

Cage blinked, trying to make sense of the dark shape moving within the booth. It was elongated and malformed, unfolding multi-jointed limbs that rasped harshly when they moved.

Blink, blink.

It was a bloated, poison-filled spider as big as a man, with a dozen glowing eyes. Each separate eye was fixed upon him with malevolent hunger, reflecting his own fear-filled, drunken face a dozen times.

Blink, blink.

It slithered across the table, slicing through the shadows like a mutant crocodile through water, changing shape as it moved toward the light. Muscles, bones and alien flesh, flowing and dripping like wax in a hot flame, shaping themselves into dozens of nightmare forms as it moved toward him.

Blink.

Cage raised his pistol with a remarkably steady hand, placing its business end between himself and the fast-approaching shape. It was out of the booth now, mingling with the thinner shadows around the freestanding tables. It crossed the intervening space like a huge slug, discarding unfinished shapes as it went.

Blink.

Sweat dripped into Cage's eyes, blinding him. He blinked fiercely in an effort to clear his vision, not wanting to give the thing a chance to reach him while he could not see. He could hear it getting closer, and the sound of its shifting body was even more terrible than the shadow-censored images he had seen: bones snapping and popping back into place, muscles ripping apart, flesh rippling and tearing and mending.

He wiped a hand across his face. It came away covered with cold, clammy perspiration that felt diseased. But his vision was clear again, and he jerked his head to see where the thing had gotten to. Before he could find it, something foul and sharp grabbed hold of his wrist. Angus Cage screamed.

"I did not mean to startle you, Mr. Cage, but you were waving your gun in my direction and I did not want it to accidently go off," said a surprisingly light voice.

Cage glanced first at his wrist. A hand held it with small, strong fingers, not with claws covered in short, black hairs
(but it felt like that before you looked, didn't it Cage?).
He followed the hand to an arm housed within a finely-tailored yet old-fashioned black suit. The arm, in turn, was connected to a small man with sparkling eyes and an amused grin. He was balding on top. The hair that remained was long and black, peppered with streaks of gray.

The small man smiled, charming Cage with infectious good will. "I have been waiting to meet you for quite some time, Mr. Cage," the small man said in a captivating voice. "I have an exhibit you simply must see. I think you will find it ... intriguing."

Cage wiped more sweat from his brow and returned his pistol to its place at his waist. He swallowed hard before speaking. "Exhibit?" he asked incredulously. "What exhibit?"

The small man did not answer. Instead, he asked a question of his own. "Are you all right, Mr. Cage?"

"What? Yes, I'm fine," Cage managed, feeling the last vestiges of fear slip away. "I just had the strangest hallucination ... Mister ...?"

"Excuse me, but my manners seem to have deserted me tonight," the small man said pleasantly. "I am Quen-tin Payne, traveling scholar and exhibitor extraordinaire. You might say that I am an expert in hallucinations. Perhaps you would care to tell me about yours?"

"Some other time, perhaps," Cage replied, deciding he liked this Quentin Payne. He liked his smile and his singsong voice. "You were telling me about an exhibit ."

Payne's eyes sparkled with excitement and amusement, and he leaned close to Cage to whisper conspiratorially. "Yes, Mr. Cage, an exhibit. But it is an exhibit, like so many other exhibits, that is better seen than described. My shop is not far from here. Not far at all. You really must come and see it for yourself."

Step right up! Hur-ree! Hur-ree! Hur-ree!

A far-away voice sang in the back of Cage's mind, but he ignored it for now. He was too busy watching Payne's dancing eyes, his charming smile. Cage allowed Payne to guide him from the stool to the door. Neither man said a word as they disappeared into the furnace heat of the Cairo night, leaving the heavy bartender alone with Cage's final drink. Abdul shook his head, whispered a prayer, and downed the drink himself. Then he walked around the counter toward the door, carefully avoiding the pools of shadow scattered throughout the joint's main room. He absently picked up the newspaper that had blown in earlier and tucked it under his arm. When he reached the door, he quickly slid the lock into place.

"Good luck, my friend," Abdul said, but there was no one left to hear him. He looked once at the picture of the young woman on the front page, shook his head, and crumbled the paper into a tight ball.

In the pre-dawn darkness, Cairo was alive with activity. Automobiles made to guzzle gas and take up more than their share of road space navigated the streets, their bright headlights cutting paths through the waning night. Men and women walked to and fro, sweating equally in their evening finery, their knockabout duds, and their dirty rags. A boy stood on one corner, beneath a puddle of light cast by a street lamp, hawking the first edition of the morning newspaper. He rattled off a titillating routine, repeating the top headlines and assuring potential buyers that this particular edition was not to be missed.

Cage listened to the boy's monologue. It reminded him of a voice from long ago, urging a much younger Angus Cage to step right up and enter the big top.
Hur-ree! Hur-ree! Hur-ree!
that ancient memory-voice impelled,
See wonders never before gathered in one place! See ex-zotic ex-zibits from the four corners of the world!

The boy had a carnival voice, Cage decided, similar to that long-ago memory-voice but not as good. Quentin Payne had a carnival voice, too, he realized, and his was much better than the boy's. Much better.

"Ex-tra! Ex-tra! Read all about it!" the newspaper boy shouted. "Heat wave continues! No relief in sight! Another disappearance reported! This time a man!"

"Come, come, Mr. Cage," Payne urged, "we are almost there. You do not want to miss what I have to show you."

Hur-ree! Hur-ree! Hur-ree!

Step right up and turn the page!

Come on in! Don't miss the show!

The old memory-voice was trying to tell Cage something, but he couldn't quite make it out in the din of all these carnival voices. He pushed the feeling away, like he had done when it first started singing back at the bar, and smiled at the small man beside him. "Lead on, Mr. Payne," Cage said, "I'm right behind you."

They walked another block, then Payne turned into a run-down, poorly-lit alley. Cage followed him, and as soon as he entered the alley Cairo was gone. It was still there, in the literal sense, but the sounds and bustle that made even the pre-dawn streets noisy were left behind when they passed between the dilapidated buildings that formed the alley. He could still hear the sounds of activity if he strained, but it was as if the noise had a hard time squeezing into this bleak corridor.

"Right this way, Mr. Cage," Payne urged. There was a hint of amusement in his voice, and a sugar-coating of excitement and mystery.

Hur-ree! Hur-ree! Hur-ree!

There were other differences in the alley, too. No single difference would be noticed, but together they gave the impression of stepping out of hot, sticky, noisy Cairo and into another world. This alley-world was cooler, and thick fog clung to the cobblestone pavement and floated up the sides of the leaning, close-spaced buildings like gossamer webs. There were more shadows here as well, shifting puddles of darkness huddling along the edges of dim illumination cast by two gaslight lamps positioned at either end of the alley. The third source of light spilled from two display windows. It was a muted, hazy light, filtered by dust-caked and grime-streaked glass. The windows framed a simple door, and all were caught beneath an ornate awning like chicks beneath a mother bird's wing.

As they moved closer, Cage saw words scrawled across the awning. They were written in fancy letters that looked very old to Cage. He supposed that was the effect the sign painter had intended. He read the words before they passed beneath the awning:

Oddities and Ends

"What a strange name," Cage muttered, barely aware that he had spoken aloud until Payne chuckled.

"Strange, but appropriate, as I am sure you will soon see," Payne replied.

Cage looked into the display windows, but the hazy light and dirty glass made it difficult to see more than enigmatic shapes. At the door, Payne produced a large key, as ornate and old as the lettering on the awning above. A sign in the door's window announced that the shop was closed, please come again. There was also a listing of the establishment's hours: Monday, Tuesday and Thursday, 8 p.m. to 12 a.m.; Other Hours by Appointment. Cage heard the loud click of a lock being disengaged, then a gust of dead air hit him as the door swung open.

"Welcome to my shop, Mr. Cage," Quentin Payne announced with fanfare. "It is a carnival of dreams and curiosities in this city of sand and harsh reality. Enter freely and of your own will."

Cage removed his worn Fedora, nodded to his host, and stepped into
Oddities and Ends.

The room Angus Cage entered was a large, cluttered affair, reeking of stale smells and musty odors. Shelves lined the walls, piled high with objects that looked more like someone's trash than high art. Display cases formed a maze through the middle of the room, protecting discarded memories within their transparent borders. Cage had the distinct impression that Payne gathered his stock from garage sales and attic cleanings. Under glass and bathed in display lights, garbage, Cage thought, was still garbage.

Quentin Payne must have seen an indication of Cage's thoughts in his facial movements, for the small man quickly took hold of his arm and led him through the maze.

"Do not be so hasty to judge my collection, Mr. Cage," Payne said. "You would be amazed at the quality of treasures one can acquire at garage sales and attic cleanings."