The Devil You Know (20 page)

It was bigger than it looked from the street, with a semicircular stage against one wall, a bar opposite, and a dozen or so circular tables in between. There were also booths around three of the walls, the lighting carefully arranged to leave them in shadow so that from inside them, you could see without being seen.

On the stage, a blonde woman who was more or less naked already was finding some tiny items of clothing she’d missed on an earlier pass and taking them off. A polished silver pole extending from stage to ceiling was her constant support and occasional stage property. A dozen or so guys in tailored suits, relaxing no doubt from a hard day in the City, and a half-dozen more, who looked like tourists, were staring at her gravity-defying breasts with a willing suspension of disbelief. Most were absorbed enough not to notice our passing, but a few who found themselves in or close to Scrub’s lumbering path drew their feet in hastily and then stared at me with a slight comic double take. I didn’t blame them—my torn shirt, now soaking wet, was sticking to my chest, and there was probably still a little blood on my face from where I’d bitten my tongue. I had the sartorial élan of Robinson Crusoe.

Scrub was still pushing, so I kept on moving. We walked right across to the far side of the room, to one of the booths that I now realized was occupied. A short, heavy-featured man who looked to be in his early fifties was sitting there alone, facing us, reading and scribbling in a ring-bound notebook. As far as I could tell in this light, his complexion was both florid and pockmarked. His eyebrows were the heaviest I’d ever seen, and his eyes were scrunched up and tamped down underneath them like two miniature worlds with Atlas’s hairy arse-cheeks sitting right on top of them. He was wearing a royal blue suit over a shirt in some kind of paisley design, and his tie was as wide and as bright as a centurion’s shield. Having been watching
Man from U.N.C.L.E.
repeats on cable TV recently, I was inescapably reminded of Mr. Waverly.

“So you’re an ass man?” he said to me, glancing up. The blunt words contrasted oddly with the smooth, cultured voice; it was a voice that ought to have been introducing guest speakers or proposing loyal toasts. But that suggests a certain po-faced solemnity, and this was also a voice that smiled at its own pretensions. There was the faintest hint of an accent in it—or rather, maybe, the complete absence of an accent that only comes with learning English from a book.

I just looked at the guy with a solemn frown—as though I was considering the philosophical implications of the question.

“I watched you as you were watching the act,” he said, his shoulders heaving as he chuckled throatily. “You prefer the steatopygous perspective, because that’s where your eyes kept going. Ergo, you’re an ass man. It’s always good to know.”

With these formalities now over and done with, the man turned to Scrub and the weasel, his hand flicking from one to the other in a brusque benediction. “Scrub, you stay with us. Arnold, you’re back on the door—and tell one of the ladies to come round and get Mr. Castor a drink, if you please. Saffron—or Rosa. Make it Rosa. She offers a rear view that Mr. Castor should find engaging.”

The weasel darted away while Scrub faded into the background—to the limited extent that a man the size of a forklift truck can do that. I stopped thinking about Mr. Waverly, and Sydney Greenstreet in
The Maltese Falcon
loomed up to fill the gap. A squat, squashed-down Sydney Greenstreet. In paisley.

“I’m Lucasz Damjohn,” my host said. Luke-ash—not a name I’d ever heard before. “Please, Mr. Castor, you’re putting me at a disadvantage. Sit down.”

I dumped my coat, which I’d been carrying all this while, over the side wall of the booth and sat down opposite him. He nodded as if, along with my obedience, rightness and order had come back into the universe.

“Excellent,” he said. “Did I call you away from anything important, or were you merely relaxing after a hard day?”

“I run a twenty-four-hour service,” I said, which made him smile, very quickly on and then off.

“Yes, I’m sure. Since I started using Scrub as a messenger,
everyone
seems to run a twenty-four-hour service. And everyone makes house calls. I’m sorry if that was heavy-handed, but I’m not the kind of a man who finds it easy to wait. Quite the contrary. I belong to the lamentable breed who find that inactivity leads naturally to impatience and then to aggression. My formal education, you see, was never completed—and so I lack the inner resources that are necessary to make profitable use of idle time. I need stimulation, or boredom quickly sets in.” He threw me a glance full of speculative concern. “Is that the case with you, Felix? Do you feel that you’re getting enough stimulation in your life?”

Felix? I was Felix now? That came out of nowhere, and it threw me slightly, but with the massive form of Scrub still looming in my peripheral vision, I decided the better part of valor was to let it pass. “I’m not complaining,” I offered by way of nonanswer.

Damjohn nodded vigorously, as if I’d said something profound. “Well, indeed. Nobody is going to listen if you do, so where’s the profit in it? Where’s the profit?”

He stopped and looked up as a woman approached the table. Or a girl, maybe; she didn’t look much over seventeen, although presumably she’d have to have been to work in a place like this. Her face was beautiful: heart-shaped, dark-eyed, with lustrous chestnut-brown hair worn in a ponytail that extended down to the middle of her back. Her lips were sensuously full and glossily red, her skin pale except for a single overemphasized spot of blush on each cheek. Beautiful, like I said, but blank; the gaudy makeup only embellished the emptiness of her expression in the same way that the revealing costume emphasized how little she had in the way of breasts. Her eyes were dark with a natural darkness under the layers of mascara and eyeliner: more bleak than soulful, though. She didn’t look like she enjoyed her job much.

“Whisky and water, please, Rosa,” Damjohn said, flicking her a glance that was brief enough to count as subliminal. “And for yourself, Felix?”

“That sounds fine to me,” I said.

Rosa turned to go, but Damjohn reached out a hand and touched her wrist with the tip of his index finger, which was enough to make her stop and turn back again, looking expectantly at him as if she was waiting for further orders.

“This is a very important guest we have here,” he said with heavy jocularity. “Mr. Felix Castor. In case you’ve never heard of him, Rosa, he’s a big man in the ghost business. An exorcist, I mean. An inspector of specters.”

Rosa’s gaze flicked to me, her face as inscrutable as a death mask. Damjohn looked over at me, too, as though somehow he was making this ham-fisted joke for my benefit. I stayed deadpan. God knew, I didn’t want to give him any encouragement.

“When we’ve finished our little chat, Felix will go upstairs and give our premises a thorough examination,” Damjohn continued after a pause that seemed significant in a way I didn’t quite get. “Tell the girls to keep their backs to the wall, please. You see, Felix is an ass man.”

He lifted his finger from the back of Rosa’s hand, and she left without a backward glance. Damjohn returned his attention to me—although to be honest, it seemed as though he’d been watching me all the time.

“So, as you will have gathered, I need to have the place cleaned,” he said. “You can do that, I presume? Put down the vermin? Caulk and seal, so that nothing untoward pops its head up and scares the girls when they ought to be working?”

I played stupid for the hell of it—and because I always like the client to spell out exactly what it is he wants. “Do you mean cockroaches, or—”

“Please,” Damjohn said with an impatient horizontal slash of his stubby hand—an erasure mark hanging in the air between us. “I mean ghosts, Felix. Ghosts. I’m perfectly capable of stamping on cockroaches without instruction or assistance.”

“And what makes you think you’ve got a haunting, Mr. Damjohn?” I asked, bedside manner kicking in again hard.

He grimaced disapprovingly. The woman on stage slid down the pole into a precarious position, sitting back on her haunches with her legs spread wide, and the scattershot applause forced a momentary silence on us. “I don’t believe I told you what I thought,” Damjohn said when the clapping had died down again and the woman had departed. Incongruously, a wide-screen TV slid down from the ceiling over the center of the stage area, showing highlights from what looked to be a Manchester City game. “But women,” Damjohn mused, “have a very delicate sensibility. A curtain blows open or a pipe gurgles, and they think they’ve received a message from the other side.” He tapped the spine of his book, frowning momentarily as if he was pursuing that thought a little further. “For my own part, I’ve never knowingly received a message of that kind. But then, it would be a matter of complete indifference to me if I ever did. Certainly I don’t think a vengeful ghost would intimidate me at all. If some man had a grudge against me, it would be my personal preference to have him dead rather than alive, you understand? I’d see that more as a convenience than as anything else.” He looked at me again, solemn-eyed. Eyebrows like that could provide a lot of solemnity.

“A convenience,” I echoed cautiously. “Right.” I was missing a lot here, enough so I was beginning to feel irritated and hard-done-by. Rosa came back with the drinks and set them in front of us. I watched her with a certain curiosity, but this time she kept her gaze fixed on her tray and walked away briskly as soon as she was done. She did have a cute bum, despite her slim build. But she wasn’t even close to being my type. I don’t go much for the “imagine me in a school uniform” look.

I took a sip of the whisky. Single malt, and good single malt, at that. I wished I’d passed on the water.

“So you just want me to inspect the premises and see whether I can find any sign of ghost or poltergeist activity,” I summed up.

“Yes.”

“Because the girls don’t like it.”

“Again, yes.”

“Then how do they cope with Scrub?” I asked, hooking my thumb over my shoulder at the big man, who was standing behind me as impassively as one of the guards at Buck House.

Damjohn gave me a look of puzzled innocence. “Scrub? You think that Scrub is a ghost, Felix? He looks solid enough to me.”

He evidently wanted me to tell him what he already knew. “Scrub is a
loup-garou
,” I said. “They used to be called werewolves, although I doubt whether the animal part of Scrub is a wolf. It would have to be something the size of a bull.” I took another sip of the whisky. If the wardrobe that walked like a man decided to take offence at my tone, it would be a shame for this fine liquor to go to waste as well as my head getting broken. “You see, what happens is that a human ghost possesses an animal host, and then it sort of moves in and redecorates. The ghost reshapes the animal body according to its memories of its own original form. It sheds fur, shifts muscle tissue around . . . makes itself look more or less human again.

“It was a French scientist—Nicole David—who first nailed this, and that’s how come we use the French word for it. It’s sort of an open question how long the human shape can be maintained—depends on the strength of the ghost’s will, mainly—but the animal is always going to reassert itself whenever it can. Dark of the moon seems to be the time when the human side is weakest and the animal side is strongest. Hell of a thing. Once you’ve seen a
loup-garou
make the change, you never forget it. You can try, but you never forget it.”

Damjohn had been watching me keenly all the way through this speech, and I was about halfway into it before I realized that Scrub was a sort of audition piece—a hurdle for me to jump. Well, I’d jumped it, and now I sat back and waited to see what my prize was going to be.

Damjohn smiled and nodded, visibly pleased.

“That was very good,” he said. “Very good indeed. I know another man in your line of business, and he didn’t make that identification straight away—or without prompting. I can see that you’re a man of some intellect, Felix.”

“Thank you, Lucasz.”

What was sauce for the goose came near to choking the gander. Damjohn’s eyes, already screwed up almost invisibly small, disappeared for a moment in their own intricate folds as he digested this small touch of warmth and familiarity. But he bounced back again and didn’t stoop so low as to make a whole thing out of it. He changed the subject instead. “In terms of remuneration,” he said, “I can offer you an arrangement that I think you’ll find to your liking.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. When you’ve previously heard a precise sum, and then you hear the words “an arrangement,” or “sweet deal,” or for that matter “undying gratitude,” in my experience, any movement you’re making is in the wrong direction. “The sum of two hundred pounds was mentioned,” I pointed out.

“Of course it was. It was I who mentioned it. But if you wanted to factor in some time with Rosa or one of my other girls, then that could also be arranged. Pari passu.”

So Damjohn was a pimp as well as a club owner. He had very refined manners for a pimp—but then a pimp with a public-school accent could have ended up as a lawyer; you had to give him credit for his moral integrity. I saw what he was doing, though, and I didn’t like it.

“Pari passu?” I repeated, sitting back. “And pro bono publico? Very laudable. But given that we only just met, we should probably keep this on a cash-and-carry basis.”

Damjohn’s manner became a little less cordial, but on the credit side, he didn’t bitch-slap me. “As you wish. But you’ll do the job? Now? Tonight?”

There’s a time and a place for the lecture that I gave to Peele, about how slow and steady wins the race. This wasn’t it. I could take a look around, and I could lay down some wards if it turned out they were necessary. If he had a real problem on his hands, we’d have to renegotiate. I shrugged. “Well, now that I’m here . . .”

“Good. Scrub, take Mr. Castor upstairs.”

My audience was over. Damjohn gave me a slightly austere nod and returned to his figures. Scrub lumbered forward as I stood up, then waited at my shoulder as I drained the whisky in a sacrilegiously quick swallow. He led the way, off to the far right, where an unmarked door stood open in a corner of the room, left strategically unlit. Like the main door that led from the foyer into the club, this one, too, had its own Saint Peter: a slab-face Saint Peter in a rumpled tux. He gave Scrub a respectful nod and stood aside to let him pass through. I followed in his wake.