Spotting a dark dive I duck inside. Being on the street is a bad idea. There's no telling who may've followed me from the Krampus building.
The place is called Persiflage 130. Candles are the only light inside save for a few low lamps on a tiny stage. Sitting in a corner where I can watch the door, I wait to see if anyone seems to follow me inside.
Though the place is on the verge of vacant the band on stage is giving it their all. The donkey on an upright bass thumps a steady rhythm. My heart slows. The rooster on a keyboard plays a mellow neo-soul tune. Crackling nerves cease spitting sparks. The cat on a saxophone grooves to the beat. The tension melts out of my muscles. An old dog on a trumpet fuses some urban jazz into the mix. I'm not at peace, but fear isn't in control.
A clockwork doll tick-tocks her way over. She asks what I want to drink.
I tell her, "Three fingers of something strong."
"Coming r-r-r-ight up." Her eye clicks shut in a slow wink. Even in the dark I can spot the rust on her body. She's an old doll. Odds are she's older than this building.
When she returns I'm delivered a glass brimming with red liquid. It tastes sweet, but the kick soon threatens to punt my brain out of my head.
She twitches into a palsied sexy pose, "How's that sh-sh-sh-sugar?"
I nod, "Just what I needed."
On stage the old dog howls, "Anywhere we can find something better than death... together you see, you and me got no fear of our last breath."
He blows the trumpet. The saxophone orbits the melody, while the bass bumps in the background. It's a bittersweet tune. Hearing it I can't help thinking about being resigned to fate. Now that Elfonso's dead perhaps I'm destined to take his seat in that chair. The ghost-odor of blood and sweat conjures a vivid scene of me getting sliced up in that grim basement.
There's a dark tide rising at the North Pole. The only way to keep from going under is to get ahead of it. Rummaging in my pocket I pull out the pages I swiped from the Krampus building. The writing, something about it strikes me as familiar.
I've never been one for codes. Vixen tried to teach me ciphers when we were kids. That way we could communicate in secret. Thick fool that I am I never could do anything complicated. So Vixen kept it simple. Unfortunately, it's been too many years for me to recall. Looking at the pages, it feels like the message is at the edge of my mind; the tip of my tongue. I should know this.
We used to pass each other notes all the time. Little bits arranging rendezvous where the other reindeer wouldn't find us; sweet words her parents couldn't realize were mine. Granted, it didn't work forever. Her parents didn't care about the words only their origin, and the other reindeer, well, they learned the hard way Vixen wasn't soft. When they got mean they got cut.
Part of me thinks it was always only a matter of time. Two people on parallel roads can only walk together until a fork arrives. We went our separate ways, but we left a mark on one another.
Signaling the clockwork waitress I watch her clitter over.
"An-nuh-nuh-nother?" she asks.
I shake my head, "Nope."
A fat tip goes her way, courtesy of the late Black Jack. At this rate the cash'll be gone soon. I don't mind. He doesn't need it anymore, and I'm pretty sure I can't buy my way out of what's coming.
I ask the doll, "Is there a backdoor?"
Pocketing the tip she points the way. I thank her. The band flourishes. She tick-tocks away. I finish my drink, and dive back into the night. Maybe it's just the drink, however, though I'm still in over my head, I'm ready to go down swinging.
#
The upside to having one lead is that there's only one place to go. After sneaking back to my bike I ride to a westside borough. There's a pool hall there called Jamaica Greene's.
Tobacco smoke fogs the joint. Pool balls clatter constantly. Occasionally low claps and intense murmurs tell of miraculous shots.
It's a mixed bag inside. Some folks here are just looking for a game. Others are killing time between running numbers, or robbing the next liquor store. That said, everyone here is a hustler.
Those aspiring to be pool sharks cut their teeth at Jamaica Greene's. The only rule, besides pay what you owe, is no falsehood. There's no attempt to down play one's ability, though more than a few folks have overestimated their skills.
I can feel eyes clocking me the minute I enter. Whispers kick up all over. It's a safe bet some here recognize me from news reports, and no doubt somebody is thinking about grabbing me. Civic duty isn't the motivation. Cops are on the hunt. If they show up here, Jamaica Greene's doesn't want them thinking I'm the kind of person frequenting this place. Tossing me out is the safe play, though calling the cops might also pay off. Grateful police are never a bad thing. The point being, I'm on borrowed time every second I'm in here.
Over in one shadowy corner I spot a pool table surrounded by a tiny catwalk. Scurrying along it is a mouse. He lines up a shot, and sends the cue ball bouncing off three rails, ricocheting its way between obstacles until it softly kisses the nine into a corner pocket. There's no whispered exclamations. For him, the shot is almost guaranteed.
Clapping as I approach I say, "Not bad Mortimer. Looks like you're still good for one thing."
Glancing my way the mouse, Mortimer Read, shakes his head. Hurrying down the catwalk he heads towards me. Along the way he pulls out a flick knife.
Brandishing the blade Mortimer says, "You owe me some money motherfucker with years of interest."
Backing away I say, "Chill Morty. I sent you that cash." Pointing to a nearby sparrow I add, "I gave it to Andy to give to you."
Mortimer pauses. He glares in Andy's direction.
Mortimer says, "Rudy's a lot of things, but one thing he ain't never been is a liar."
The sparrow starts to stammer out a response then bolts for the nearest window. An otter slams it shut. Mortimer nods, and Andy the sparrow gets dragged into the alley out back. He'll be seen again. Mortimer is severe, but no monster. However, Andy won't ever be pretty again. Twenty grand buys a lot of wreckage.
Putting the knife away Mortimer says, "Now that that's out of the way, it's good to see you."
"Good to see you too. Look, I need some help."
"Then here's some free advice." Mortimer goes back up onto the catwalk, "Why ever you're killing those reindeer -- I don't care -- but it's time for you to get out of town."
Part of me doesn't disagree. There's only one problem. I don't mind going down for something I did. However, I'm not about to be the fall guy in this situation, and though Big Red tends to leave the Outskirts alone, I get the feeling killing his fliers is exactly the kind of thing he'll chase someone to the ends of the Earth over. I need to clear my name if I want to be left alone.
So I pull out the pages saying, "My hoof's out the door. There's just one, or two things I need to know before I go."
Mortimer hops the cue over a line of balls. It clips a stripe into the side pocket. He orbits the table, walking slowly to his next shot.
He says, "It's been a while Rudy. I'm not as well connected as I used to be. The Shortage." He shakes his head, "Things got desperate. That strained a lot of relationships, ya follow?"
Everything down to the bare minimum. People starving in the streets. No amount of money able to buy a crust of bread. I can imagine everyone going at each other's throats. On the Outskirts we did okay, though not much better. Even good friends ate one another, some literally.
Flashing the pages at him I say, "I'm not here for your connections. I'm here for you."
I toss the pages on the table. Mortimer glances at them. He gestures, and a cat clears the pages off the table. After his shot Mortimer motions. The cat holds the pages closer to him.
He nods, "It's a pigpen cipher."
Hearing it out loud connects all the dots. Suddenly I remember the code. Vixen loved to use it because the pigpen felt like alien writing -- "Something from another world," she used to say.
I ask if Mortimer can read it. He snorts. He knows all the codes, invented a few of his own.
So he says, "That's almost insulting."
I smirk, "Then what's it say?"
He reads, "'King Crimson is on the menu. Three days. Be ready to devour.'"
A coded phrase in a coded message. It makes sense. Using a simple cipher made it easy to encrypt any messages, but also left it likely those letters, if intercepted, might get decoded. An extra layer made the details a bit harder to figure.
The rest of the pages are pretty much the same. The only consistent bit is they all mention King Crimson. It's a safe bet those three days are up, or damn close to being. Something is about to happen if it hasn't already.
Mortimer nudges the cue ball into the eight. The black ball rolls along a rail until it stops just short of a pocket. Sighing, Mortimer shakes his head.
He says, "What've you gotten into Rudy?"
I tell him, "Honestly, I don't know."
A gesture from Mortimer, and the cat hands me back the pages.
Mortimer comes around on the catwalk. Looking over at me he seems to be considering something.
He says, "You were never really a bad guy Rudy. Trouble, yeah, but not bad. Do yourself a favor, okay? Just disappear."
I say, "Would if I could, but you know the old saying. 'He sees you if you're sleeping,' and such." A dim bulb brightens, "Of course."
"What is it?" Mortimer asks.
"I gotta go. Thanks Morty." Running out I shout back, "I owe you one."
He hollers, "Where're you going?"
"To see King Crimson."
I'm on my way to Big Red's.
The place is called Persiflage 130. Candles are the only light inside save for a few low lamps on a tiny stage. Sitting in a corner where I can watch the door, I wait to see if anyone seems to follow me inside.
Though the place is on the verge of vacant the band on stage is giving it their all. The donkey on an upright bass thumps a steady rhythm. My heart slows. The rooster on a keyboard plays a mellow neo-soul tune. Crackling nerves cease spitting sparks. The cat on a saxophone grooves to the beat. The tension melts out of my muscles. An old dog on a trumpet fuses some urban jazz into the mix. I'm not at peace, but fear isn't in control.
A clockwork doll tick-tocks her way over. She asks what I want to drink.
I tell her, "Three fingers of something strong."
"Coming r-r-r-ight up." Her eye clicks shut in a slow wink. Even in the dark I can spot the rust on her body. She's an old doll. Odds are she's older than this building.
When she returns I'm delivered a glass brimming with red liquid. It tastes sweet, but the kick soon threatens to punt my brain out of my head.
She twitches into a palsied sexy pose, "How's that sh-sh-sh-sugar?"
I nod, "Just what I needed."
On stage the old dog howls, "Anywhere we can find something better than death... together you see, you and me got no fear of our last breath."
He blows the trumpet. The saxophone orbits the melody, while the bass bumps in the background. It's a bittersweet tune. Hearing it I can't help thinking about being resigned to fate. Now that Elfonso's dead perhaps I'm destined to take his seat in that chair. The ghost-odor of blood and sweat conjures a vivid scene of me getting sliced up in that grim basement.
There's a dark tide rising at the North Pole. The only way to keep from going under is to get ahead of it. Rummaging in my pocket I pull out the pages I swiped from the Krampus building. The writing, something about it strikes me as familiar.
I've never been one for codes. Vixen tried to teach me ciphers when we were kids. That way we could communicate in secret. Thick fool that I am I never could do anything complicated. So Vixen kept it simple. Unfortunately, it's been too many years for me to recall. Looking at the pages, it feels like the message is at the edge of my mind; the tip of my tongue. I should know this.
We used to pass each other notes all the time. Little bits arranging rendezvous where the other reindeer wouldn't find us; sweet words her parents couldn't realize were mine. Granted, it didn't work forever. Her parents didn't care about the words only their origin, and the other reindeer, well, they learned the hard way Vixen wasn't soft. When they got mean they got cut.
Part of me thinks it was always only a matter of time. Two people on parallel roads can only walk together until a fork arrives. We went our separate ways, but we left a mark on one another.
Signaling the clockwork waitress I watch her clitter over.
"An-nuh-nuh-nother?" she asks.
I shake my head, "Nope."
A fat tip goes her way, courtesy of the late Black Jack. At this rate the cash'll be gone soon. I don't mind. He doesn't need it anymore, and I'm pretty sure I can't buy my way out of what's coming.
I ask the doll, "Is there a backdoor?"
Pocketing the tip she points the way. I thank her. The band flourishes. She tick-tocks away. I finish my drink, and dive back into the night. Maybe it's just the drink, however, though I'm still in over my head, I'm ready to go down swinging.
#
The upside to having one lead is that there's only one place to go. After sneaking back to my bike I ride to a westside borough. There's a pool hall there called Jamaica Greene's.
Tobacco smoke fogs the joint. Pool balls clatter constantly. Occasionally low claps and intense murmurs tell of miraculous shots.
It's a mixed bag inside. Some folks here are just looking for a game. Others are killing time between running numbers, or robbing the next liquor store. That said, everyone here is a hustler.
Those aspiring to be pool sharks cut their teeth at Jamaica Greene's. The only rule, besides pay what you owe, is no falsehood. There's no attempt to down play one's ability, though more than a few folks have overestimated their skills.
I can feel eyes clocking me the minute I enter. Whispers kick up all over. It's a safe bet some here recognize me from news reports, and no doubt somebody is thinking about grabbing me. Civic duty isn't the motivation. Cops are on the hunt. If they show up here, Jamaica Greene's doesn't want them thinking I'm the kind of person frequenting this place. Tossing me out is the safe play, though calling the cops might also pay off. Grateful police are never a bad thing. The point being, I'm on borrowed time every second I'm in here.
Over in one shadowy corner I spot a pool table surrounded by a tiny catwalk. Scurrying along it is a mouse. He lines up a shot, and sends the cue ball bouncing off three rails, ricocheting its way between obstacles until it softly kisses the nine into a corner pocket. There's no whispered exclamations. For him, the shot is almost guaranteed.
Clapping as I approach I say, "Not bad Mortimer. Looks like you're still good for one thing."
Glancing my way the mouse, Mortimer Read, shakes his head. Hurrying down the catwalk he heads towards me. Along the way he pulls out a flick knife.
Brandishing the blade Mortimer says, "You owe me some money motherfucker with years of interest."
Backing away I say, "Chill Morty. I sent you that cash." Pointing to a nearby sparrow I add, "I gave it to Andy to give to you."
Mortimer pauses. He glares in Andy's direction.
Mortimer says, "Rudy's a lot of things, but one thing he ain't never been is a liar."
The sparrow starts to stammer out a response then bolts for the nearest window. An otter slams it shut. Mortimer nods, and Andy the sparrow gets dragged into the alley out back. He'll be seen again. Mortimer is severe, but no monster. However, Andy won't ever be pretty again. Twenty grand buys a lot of wreckage.
Putting the knife away Mortimer says, "Now that that's out of the way, it's good to see you."
"Good to see you too. Look, I need some help."
"Then here's some free advice." Mortimer goes back up onto the catwalk, "Why ever you're killing those reindeer -- I don't care -- but it's time for you to get out of town."
Part of me doesn't disagree. There's only one problem. I don't mind going down for something I did. However, I'm not about to be the fall guy in this situation, and though Big Red tends to leave the Outskirts alone, I get the feeling killing his fliers is exactly the kind of thing he'll chase someone to the ends of the Earth over. I need to clear my name if I want to be left alone.
So I pull out the pages saying, "My hoof's out the door. There's just one, or two things I need to know before I go."
Mortimer hops the cue over a line of balls. It clips a stripe into the side pocket. He orbits the table, walking slowly to his next shot.
He says, "It's been a while Rudy. I'm not as well connected as I used to be. The Shortage." He shakes his head, "Things got desperate. That strained a lot of relationships, ya follow?"
Everything down to the bare minimum. People starving in the streets. No amount of money able to buy a crust of bread. I can imagine everyone going at each other's throats. On the Outskirts we did okay, though not much better. Even good friends ate one another, some literally.
Flashing the pages at him I say, "I'm not here for your connections. I'm here for you."
I toss the pages on the table. Mortimer glances at them. He gestures, and a cat clears the pages off the table. After his shot Mortimer motions. The cat holds the pages closer to him.
He nods, "It's a pigpen cipher."
Hearing it out loud connects all the dots. Suddenly I remember the code. Vixen loved to use it because the pigpen felt like alien writing -- "Something from another world," she used to say.
I ask if Mortimer can read it. He snorts. He knows all the codes, invented a few of his own.
So he says, "That's almost insulting."
I smirk, "Then what's it say?"
He reads, "'King Crimson is on the menu. Three days. Be ready to devour.'"
A coded phrase in a coded message. It makes sense. Using a simple cipher made it easy to encrypt any messages, but also left it likely those letters, if intercepted, might get decoded. An extra layer made the details a bit harder to figure.
The rest of the pages are pretty much the same. The only consistent bit is they all mention King Crimson. It's a safe bet those three days are up, or damn close to being. Something is about to happen if it hasn't already.
Mortimer nudges the cue ball into the eight. The black ball rolls along a rail until it stops just short of a pocket. Sighing, Mortimer shakes his head.
He says, "What've you gotten into Rudy?"
I tell him, "Honestly, I don't know."
A gesture from Mortimer, and the cat hands me back the pages.
Mortimer comes around on the catwalk. Looking over at me he seems to be considering something.
He says, "You were never really a bad guy Rudy. Trouble, yeah, but not bad. Do yourself a favor, okay? Just disappear."
I say, "Would if I could, but you know the old saying. 'He sees you if you're sleeping,' and such." A dim bulb brightens, "Of course."
"What is it?" Mortimer asks.
"I gotta go. Thanks Morty." Running out I shout back, "I owe you one."
He hollers, "Where're you going?"
"To see King Crimson."
I'm on my way to Big Red's.
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