Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (6 page)

“So any ideas on the identity of the asshole calling up the demon?” I asked.

“No. But I hear that whoever the Conjurer is, they were contracted to perform the hits by another outfit—Cesar Yraeta’s guys. Yraeta runs a powerful Mexican syndicate, called the 16
th
Street Kings. The Kings are into all kinds of shit: guns, drugs, prostitution—damn-near untouchable—they’re even connected with the De La Llave Cartel down south and the Cosa Nostra. Bad folks and bad business.”

“The Kings started out as small-timers over in Oakland, but Yraeta came up through the ranks and turned the whole organization into a national corporation. That would be the same Cesar Yraeta who sent goons to take a poke at you down in New Orleans. Based on what you’ve told me, it sounds like Yraeta has the distinct impression that
you
have been contracted by Morse to make a retaliation hit.”

“Wish someone would tell Morse and his Rakshasa that,” I said. Oh the joys of being a rambling, bluesman-turned-mage who’s too dumb to keep his fat nose out of other people’s business. Stupid moral compass. Sometimes I wish I could aim my iron at the pesky little Jiminy Cricket perched on my shoulder—that S.O.B. sure does have a penchant for getting me into heaps of unnecessary trouble.

“There’s more bad news, Yancy. Word’s also gotten around that you might be the Conjurer. It would explain why Morse would be gunning for you.”

“So,” I said, “both sides are trying to sink my battleship. Awesome. That sure is a great big pile of crap to sort through—and I still don’t have any idea why my name keeps getting thrown around. What about the murders themselves? Is it likely that Yraeta
is
somehow responsible for the hits?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “Based on the evidence the LAPD has collected, it looks like there’s a compelling case against the Kings—Yraeta looks good for it, though the case wouldn’t ever stand up in trial. Inexplicable monster attacks and all.”

“What about a timeline? Something this big probably requires a ritual, so there should be a fairly clear pattern to track.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “The pattern’s as clear as True Kentucky Shine: four separate attacks, each on Saturday shortly after sunset. Gives us about twenty-four hours before this thing hits again. So we have a time, but no target or location. Still better than nothin’ I suppose.”

“It’s a place to start.” I ran a hand through my hair. It was a place but not a good one, and there was still the question of how these gangland goons got a hold of my name in the first place. Plus, there was a friggin’ murderous demon to consider, not to mention the colossal frame job going on. I was starting to feel a lot like Roger Rabbit; at least I had Greg to play the part of Eddie Valiant.

“I have a PI back east who I trust,” I continued after a time, “I’ll have him take a hard look at your detective friend Al. See if maybe he isn’t as squeaky clean as he appears.” Since this guy Al was working the case, it was likely that he knew about my involvement, which bumped him right up to my number one suspect spot, even if I couldn’t pin a motive on him yet.

“Can you run down any contacts you might have to see whether Yraeta is behind the attacks?” I asked. “Go deep—I mean cavity-search-to-the-elbow deep—official channels, street informants, Venántium files. Shit, even friendly spirits who might owe you a favor?”

“Yeah, okay. I can do it.” Greg sighed, “but if I’m doin’ all the hard work, what are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to try to get a bead on Morse. Pump him for info, see if I might find out likely targets for the next attack.”

“I can help you out there.” He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the white linoleum tabletop. “Something that might be right up your alley. Morse is a card shark, plays high stakes poker at a joint in the city on Fridays, called The Full House—the bar’s owned and operated by the M.C. The buy-in for the game is high—maybe ten thousand, could be more—but it might offer a less violent approach. I know you tend to channel the spirit of the Incredible Hulk, but maybe James Bond would suit you better for the night.”

A card game. Now that was something I could get behind. Despite Greg’s insistence that I like smashing things, I don’t. Sure, when I get involved in a case things usually get both bad and bloody—sometimes people die, and things do often get smashed up real good. So, I suppose from a certain
angle I might seem
a little Hulk-ish, but it isn’t me. Honest. I’ll take a smoky pool hall with some good music and a shady card game over a firefight any day of the week.

“Awesome,” I said and meant it. “Sounds fine to me. But before I double-o-seven my way into see Morse, I could use a few hours of shuteye.”

“Sticking me with all the leg work while you lounge around and sleep,” he said. “Your rooms at the end of the hall, princess.”

“Once again, I am moved by your overwhelming compassion and understanding,” I replied. “And you’re damn right I’m going to catch a little shuteye. I’ve been up for twenty hours, I need some time to recharge if I’m going to be at my peak.”

“You always were a real beauty queen,” Greg grumbled as he got up from the table, grabbing car keys off a wooden key shaped plaque near the back door. “I’ll leave the address for the club on the coffee table. Be careful.”

SEVEN:

The Full House

I found myself outside The Full House at eight o’clock, mostly rested, showered, and roughly resembling a normal human being. After taking one look at The Full House, I sort of regretted not keeping the rumpled, blood-stained look—I probably would’ve attracted far less attention. The bar was a dive and not in the cool, gritty, American
-
dive-bar-scene way. This place was a genuine shithole: dark, dirty—broken beer bottles and old vomit littered the sidewalk out front—and supremely suspicious. Pretty sure there was a blood stain on the exterior wall. I should’ve gone in for a tetanus booster just from looking at the place.

The building was a box: dull gray concrete, offset by a small swath of red brick lattice near the entrance. A few narrow windows adorned the front wall, covered with thick rebar, which screamed
turn around and go away
. A long row of Harleys filled the parking lot to the right, each gleaming in the sterile florescent lighting provided by a single light post. It was the kind of members only bar that didn’t advertise and didn’t want your business—it was a place you came to only if you had a good reason and
an invitation.

I had neither, but wasn’t too worried—places like this are my natural habitat. I take to slummy bars and sheisty gambling halls like a proud lion to the rolling grassy plains of the savannah. Well acquainted, am I, with the various beasts of the beer-tavern. The cackling hyena pool players—scavengers, lurking in the shadows, waiting to prey upon the unwary sucker. The sports-betting meerkat folk who poke heads out of their beer mug homes only long enough to check scores, before ducking back down in a bid to avoid the larger predators. The aloof but noble bartender baboon, dispensing suds and bar room wisdom in equal portions—kind of like Rafiki from the
Lion King
, sans the beer-thing
.

Though I like to keep my head down, make no mistake, I am the lion of the dive: at the end of the day everyone gets out of the way for me. I’m not bragging either, just the facts, ma’am. People subconsciously recognize power and danger when they see it, and those are things they avoid—an instinct left over from the survivalist-reptilian part of our brain.

Tonight, however, I was going incognito. First, the subtle glamour on my jacket would make me more like a piece of furniture than a person—easy to ignore and fairly inoffensive. Second, I had taken the time to weave a complex illusion of spirit, fire, and air. The working was a veil, one which gave me the appearance of a rough and tumble old-timer with wrinkled skin, some bitchin’ scars, and a wispy white beard.

Though Morse and his crew would surely be on the lookout for me, they’d never see through my conjured mask. The working had taken me half-an-hour of concerted effort to mold into place, and it took a good chunk of energy to maintain, but it was worth the effort. Instead of a lion, I was going disguised as a tired, old water buffalo—just another harmless herd animal, hardly worth a second glance.

I steeled myself for whatever might come next, and went into The Full House.

The fragrant haze of thick tobacco smoke—mingled with the underlying pungent scent of pot and stale beer—hit my nostrils. Pool and card tables filled most of the floor space, each illuminated in a small puddle of amber light which only served to emphasize the oceans of darkness between them. The men and women filling the joint were hard looking types: lots of leather, metal, tattoos, and beards. My God, but there were some truly magnificent beards.

Shinedown’s acoustic version of “Simple Man” blared through the air. Great tune. For the first time since getting caught up in this shit, I felt
good
. Most of these people would probably kill me if they knew who I was, but in-spite of that, these people were my people. Fellow wanderers, gamblers, drunkards, ink-covered hard-cases. They were also more than those stereotypes, too. They were people, complex beings who were fathers and friends, wives and advocates, lovers and parents. Many of these people weren’t good people—probably gunrunners and drug dealers—but they were also more than the sum of their bad deeds, and I was in no position to start casting stones.

I’d like to think I’m more than just my mistakes. It’s more complicated than that.

I wandered over to the bar and ordered a drink while I eyed the room, taking in the proverbial lay-of-the-land. Most of the tables were full, but there was a game near the back with only four players and an open chair, which looked like an invitation to me. I sauntered over to the edge of the shallow pool of light dipping over the table, keeping myself in the shadows, keeping quiet while I eyed the game with serious intent. I watched the players for a time, nursing my drink, sizing up the competition. After a few hands, I knew I could play and win.

“Mind if I buy in?” I asked to no one in particular. The loud and rowdy banter at the table ebbed to a standstill; four pairs of eyes held me in hard scrutiny.

“Never seen you ‘round here before,” a grizzled man, with arms the size of small tree trunks, said after a few moments. “How’d you hear about this place?” The question seemed harmless, yet a wrong answer would likely bounce my ass right out the door—and that was the best case scenario.

“Just passing through.” I shrugged. “Looking for a good poker game, heard from a friend that this place might offer a little action … so, you mind if I buy in or what?” There was a long tight pause, pregnant with possibility, as Tree-Trunk Arms decided my fate.

“Ah, why the hell not,” he replied with a toothy grin, sporting a few gaps. “It’s a free country, old-timer. I’ll be glad to take your money. Name’s Uncle Frank, and we’re glad to have you, partner. Buy-in’s five hundred, the game is straight up Hold ‘Em. You still in?”

“Call me Lucky,” I said, “and you better believe it, though I was hoping for something a little more expensive.” Tree-Trunk Arms laughed with a great belly rumble which shook his frame and the whole card table. One of his neatly piled chip stacks toppled lazily with a few soft clicks.

“Well partner, let’s see how you do out here with us small timers—trust me, we’ll be more than pleased to take all you got.”

I nodded, cracking a wide grin of my own, while I pulled out a chair and he dealt me a hand.

And then I played.

I played and played late into the night, hand after hand, tune after tune, letting nicotine and music wash over me. Cool beer in one hand and slightly worn and bent playing cards in the other. I let the game take me, knowing I needed to win, and win big, if I was going to get a shot at Morse. I played for fun, drinking a little too much and enjoying it, because I knew in my bones that I’d already won. I was having a lucky night, and not the way normal people have a lucky night. With me, and people like me, luck is a quantifiable thing.

I would win because I
always
win when it comes to games of chance. No one knows why, but major practitioners fundamentally alter certain aspects of reality. Drawing in the Vis creates a sorta weak spot, which, in turn, creates a field of improbability, making things that wouldn’t normally happen much more likely. What it boils down to is this: most world class practitioners are lucky as shit, at least in the small things.

This improbability field does have its limits—it’s kind of like a small magnet, its field of influence will only affect things of a relatively proportionate size. A small magnet isn’t gonna move a two-ton steel pipe, but it will pick up iron filings. Likewise, my improbability field isn’t going to let me win the lottery (that’s a
very
big field of influence), but it can alter small things like a throw of the dice, or a hand of cards.

I absolutely wreak havoc on games of chance like craps, roulette, and, to a lesser extent, card games. I don’t get flushes, straights, or full houses every
hand, but that’s not too far off the mark. And let me tell you, being able to rig games by means of extraordinary luck sure does pay the bills. I can take a grand down to Atlantic City or Vegas and in a weekend walk away with enough cash to get by for a year. In fact, that’s my business strategy: win big twice a year at different casinos, and whittle away the cash into several different banks accounts filed under my various aliases.