“I’m afraid not.”
“Come in the back,” Minerva said.
She fished around in her pockets until she came up with a cigarette and a cheap plastic lighter. As she lit up she said, “Forgive me for being mercenary, darling, but I don’t suppose you have any filthy lucre in the pockets of those quivering slacks?”
“No money,” said Coop. “But I have jewelry. Shiny stuff. Antiques.”
Minerva gave him a wicked half smile. “Want to give me a gander?”
“Let’s talk first.”
“You were always a slick one.”
Minerva led him through a curtain to the inner room where she did her readings. She sat on some cushions and puffed her cigarette. To Coop, the setup looked like one big stoner firetrap.
“Where the hell have you been all this time?” she said.
Coop was still taking in the room. The candles. The paisley drapes. The black-light astrological posters. Soft cushions and low chairs. It was like a pretty little bunker decorated by a teenage hippie Hobbit.
“I’ve been all over,” he said. “Down on my luck for part of it. Then in jail for a while.”
She listened, and then nodded. “The curse of those of us on the job. But you’re out now and it doesn’t look like you’re starving.”
“I ran into Giselle a while ago. We’re back together.”
Minerva leaned back in the pillows. “After she tore out your heart and burned it in the public square? You really are the forgiving sort.”
There were a lot of shadows, nooks, and crannies in the Hobbit hole, but he didn’t see anything mummy size. Still, he had to suppress the desire to twirl.
“There’s something else—and don’t hate me for it . . .” he said.
“Here it comes,” Minerva said cautiously. “Out with it.”
“I’m a fed.”
She turned white and stubbed out her cigarette. Carefully clasping her hands, she spoke to him sweetly, like an old lady in a pastry house trying to lure him into the oven.
“Coop, dear, if you’re here to bust me, how about giving old Minerva a head start? For old times’ sake?”
“Relax,” he said. “I’m not that kind of fed.”
She curled her lip. “Then what kind are you?”
Coop leaned across the table and said, “We don’t do bank robberies or heists. We’re on the enchantment end of things. Naughty vampires. Crooked ghosts. That kind of thing.”
“You’re a spook hunter?”
“Me? Never. You heard about the museum job a couple of days ago? I’m that kind of fed.”
Minerva’s eyebrows arched. “That was you? How delicious. Tell me all about it.”
He flashed on the image of the mummy and the tired-looking rent-a-cop pointing at him hungrily, like the last éclair in a gas-station donut bin.
“Things went great the first time in. But they went south fast the second.”
“Wait. You went back for sloppy seconds? That’s bad luck, you goose. I suppose you had a good reason.”
He sighed. “We forgot something.”
“What?”
“This.” Coop took a handkerchief from his pocket and dumped the loot from the Egyptian exhibit on the table.
The feeling that welled up in Minerva’s gut wasn’t greed but the certainty that if her eyes weren’t rooted into her brain, they would have grabbed everything, shot the place up, and been on a plane to parts unknown before either of them could say, Well, you don’t see that every day.
“Be still, my heart,” she said.
“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” said Coop.
“Might I . . . ?” said Minerva, pointing to the glittering gold and jewels.
“Be my guest. It’s all the real thing.”
She picked up some rings and a small necklace. “It certainly is. Oh my. Some of these baubles are practically vibrating with metaphysical power.”
“Really? Don’t kid around,” said Coop.
“No, there’s some powerful stuff here. But I’m curious. Why bring it to me? Why not just fence it?”
In his head, the mummy said, “Coop.”
“I’ve got magic trouble, Minerva.”
“You? Bull. Now me, I’ve got magic troubles. My spirit guide just dumped me like I wouldn’t put out on prom night.” She took out another cigarette and lit it.
“I’ve got real magic troubles.”
“What are you trying to drag me into?” she said guardedly.
“A curse,” said Coop. “A real-life holy-shit Boris Karloff mummy curse.”
Minerva put out a hand and pushed the jewelry back to Coop’s side of the table.
“It was lovely seeing you. My door is always open, but why don’t you get the hell out of here? Go and try . . . I don’t know . . . Professor Moony.”
Coop frowned. “I checked. Moony’s on the county-fair circuit. He does a mind-reading act with a pig.”
“Not anymore,” said Minerva. “He got booted out for drinking. Had to eat his partner.”
“Then why did you tell me to see him?”
She shrugged. “I figured neither of you has much to live for.”
Coop pushed the jewelry back to her side of the table. “I need help, Minerva.”
“I don’t know,” she said with a little shudder. “Old Egyptian curses. That’s rough stuff. Did you ever hear of Preston Casey?”
“No.”
She gave him a dreamy little smile. “He was a gorgeous MGM up-and-comer. Broke the heart of a local chippy while shooting The Swingin’ Legionnaire in Cairo back in ’56.”
“What happened to him?”
“You know about the Seven Plagues of Egypt?”
“I recently made their acquaintance.”
“He got all of them. Down south, if you get my drift,” she said, pointing to her lap.
Coop made a face. “Did he get cured?”
“Sure, in the sense that he died. They say he still haunts the bar at the Cairo Princess Hotel—a wailing wraith with an eternally empty martini glass searching for a drink and his balls.”
Coop crossed and uncrossed his legs. “Balls-wise—that’s exactly the kind of thing I’m trying to avoid.”
“Here’s some advice: if you’re visiting the pyramids, don’t screw the help. That’s the best I can do for you. Now why don’t you run along?”
Coop picked up each bit of jewelry and set it down separately, like a window display. “See, I figured if I couldn’t buy off a mummy, maybe I could find someone who could do it for me. I’m willing to pay.”
“Go on,” said Minerva.
“At work, there’s an amulet they think can control the mummy. But I don’t trust them. I’m wondering if there’s something in this junk that can help me.”
Minerva drummed her fingers on the table nervously. “You left out the payment part.”
Coop waved his hands over the table like a carny magician. “Take something from the pile. Anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“Anything. But if there’s something here that will get King Tut off my back, that one I keep.”
“That sounds reasonable. But I’ll need to check some of my books,” Minerva said.
She reached under some pillows and came back with a glass that had probably been clean once and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “Feel free to commune with the spirits while I’m in the back.”
Minerva disappeared and Coop poured himself a shot.
What am I doing with my life? How the hell did I get here? Maybe I need to get into another line of work.
He drank a shot at the thought of each job he could come up with. Dog walking. Cable-TV installation. Putting restaurant menus under windshield wipers. Those all seemed peaceful, and they were about the only things he might be qualified for besides stealing.
How many shots is that? That can’t be all I can do.
Maybe he could do the reformed crook bit and put on seminars about robbery and sorcery for cops.
No. Scratch that. The only law enforcement that deals with magic is the DOPS. Regular cops would have me locked up as a fraud or an escaped schizo.
He put the bottle down, hopelessness welling up inside him. He couldn’t work in the straight world and he knew it. The closest he’d ever come was working at a movie theater one summer when he was around twelve. He didn’t steal from the box office—that would have been too easy—but he watered down the butter for the popcorn. With the money he saved, he bought his first set of lockpicks.
Maybe I can be an Igor for an old-school conjurer. A straight nine-to-five gig and the only downside would be wearing a hump all day. Or volunteer for medical experiments. Vaccines and sleep deprivation. Maybe they’ll hit me with some gamma rays and I’ll Hulk out. Would Giselle still like me if I was green?
It sounded scary, but not much different from working for the DOPS.
Minerva came out of the back with a huge old book bound in cracked leather and closed with silver clasps. She dropped it onto the table. The bottle and glass jumped like they were startled.
“You are one lucky son of a bitch,” she said.
“You found something?” said Coop, his stomach no longer boiling with tension, but merely simmering.
Minerva picked up a few pieces of jewelry and compared them to illustrations in the book. Coop got up and walked around to Minerva’s side of the table. She slammed the book closed.
“Your balls are at stake, boy. Don’t annoy Minerva.”
“Sorry.” Coop went back to his side of the table and poured himself another drink.
“Okay,” said Minerva thoughtfully. “Some of this junk is junk. Some have magical properties, but not the kind you want.”
“Get to the lucky-son-of-a-bitch part.”
She set down the book and handed him a thin lapis lazuli necklace.
“This is it, kiddo. If anything is going to save your bacon, it’s this little charmer here.”
“What do I do with it?”
Minerva scowled. “It’s a necklace, Dumbo. You put it on.”
Coop shrugged off his sports coat and put the lapis around his neck.
“I look like I’m selling pot brownies at Woodstock,” he said.
“You wear it under your shirt.”
“The magic can get out?”
“Yes. That’s why they call it magic.”
He unbuttoned his collar and pushed the necklace down inside. “Okay. What do I do now?”
Minerva looked over Coop’s loot. “I don’t know. Go home. See a movie. Learn the banjo. Just don’t take the necklace off for any reason until this thing blows over.”
Coop was doubtful. “This little thing is going to protect me?”
Minerva looked at him. “It’s this or you can go to Egypt, find a bigger, meaner mummy, and bring him back to fight the first one.”
“But then I’ll have an even worse mummy on my hands.”
“It’s a pickle, isn’t it?”
“I’ll stick with the necklace.”
“Good boy. You’re so sharp I could slice bologna with you.”
Coop pointed to the jewelry. “Okay. Your turn. Pick anything.”
Minerva pursed her lips and let her hand drift over the baubles. She reached down and picked up a small gold ritual knife.
“That’s it?” said Coop. He showed her something else. “This ankh thing is a lot bigger and has more jewels.”
She waved a hand at him. “That’s all right. I feel a kinship with this little darling.”
Coop took a breath. Maybe it was the Jack Daniel’s, maybe it was the lack of oxygen from all the patchouli fumes, but he actually felt relaxed. He put the rest of the jewels in his pocket and touched the necklace under his shirt.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Minerva.”
She came around the table and gave him a hug. “Don’t be such a stranger. Keep in touch and let me know how you’re doing. If you need any more help, my door is always open.”
“I feel a lot better.”
Minerva took his arm and led his to the front of the parlor. “Please give Giselle my warmest regards.”
“I will.”
“Are you still in touch with Morty?”
“Sure.”
“Tell the little shit he never thanked me for setting him up with that hottie dental assistant.”
She gave him a motherly smile and unlocked the door.
“I’ll see you around, Minerva,” Coop said. He felt no desire to pirouette, gyrate, or whirl like a dervish down the street. He walked like anyone else—one foot in front of the other, not worried about mummies or looking for a new job. He was okay now. Maybe better than he’d been since he got out of jail. He went to the corner and even got a cab after just a couple of minutes. Outside in the afternoon was suddenly a great place to be. He was protected and on top of the world.
In her parlor, Minerva was on the phone in the back room that served as her library, kitchen, breakfast nook, and, with the addition of a television she bought off the back of a truck, home entertainment center. The phone rang a few times and a man answered.
“Kellar. Get your ass over here right now,” she said. “I don’t care if you have a hot prospect; mine’s hotter. Oh. Really? That is good. Fine, but get over here when you can. That break we’ve been looking for? He might have just walked out. Why did I let him go? I put a mystical Kick Me sign on him before he left. He’ll be back.”
23
Vargas got to work early to make up for having fled the previous day. Considering Zulawski’s recent behavior, he looked forward to having the office to himself for a few minutes to settle in and prepare things. However, when he opened the door, there Zulawski was, seated at his desk. Before Vargas could say anything, Zulawski held up a small cardboard box.
“Look. We actually received something today.”
Vargas came in and put down his own package. “How exciting. What is it?”
Zulawski pulled apart the top of the box to reveal its writhing contents.
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.”
“Did you request a squid?” said Vargas.
“Of course not. And if I had, I would certainly have mentioned it.”
“Hmm.”
“Really.”
Vargas went to his desk and sat down, already feeling apprehensive—and the day had barely begun. The best cure for that, he remembered from his training, was to seize control of the moment. With a box cutter, he carefully sliced away the tape that held together the top of his own box. Before he could say anything, however, Zulawski came over and put out his hand. Puzzled, Vargas shook it.
“I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday. You were right. I was overwrought.”
“Apology accepted.”
“I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I’ve even destroyed the tube and put the aluminum foil in the recycling bin.”
“That is good news,” said Vargas. He looked at Zulawski, trying to gauge his state of mind. From where Vargas sat, it seemed shaky with a sprinkling of tenuous.
“However, I do stand by one thing,” Zulawski said. “You have to admit that things are getting stranger down here. I know I sounded irrational yesterday, but I truly believe that the parcel is exerting a bad influence on the entire room.”
Vargas peered at the shelves.
“The bad news is that I agree with you. The good news is that I plan on doing something about it along with our general neglect down here.”
“You have a plan?”
“Indeed I do.” Vargas opened his box. “Behold our salvation.”
Zulawski looked inside. “Are those mice?” he said, clearly disappointed.
“Maybe you were expecting someone from management or perhaps the president?”
“Of course not. It’s just . . . our salvation? Please explain that.”
“I’d be happy to,” said Vargas, his confidence returning. “Mice are small, they don’t eat much, and th
ey breed quickly.”
“So do my brothers, but they wouldn’t be much help.”
Vargas took one of the mice from the box and stroked its whiskered head. “We release the mice in the office, see? They’ll breed and start a vermin explosion. Everyone is afraid of mice. They carry plague.”
“I believe that’s rats.”
“Are you positive? Anyway, I’m sure you get my point. When a certain vermin-to-human ratio is achieved, someone will have to come down.”
Zulawski scratched his ear nervously. “I’m not sure about this.”
Vargas put the mouse back in the box. “What’s wrong with the plan? Please. Poke holes in it if you can.”
Zulawski glanced back at his desk. “I can’t. But we already have a squid to take care of.”
Vargas raised a finger. “That’s the beauty of this. They’re mice. Just leave out some food and they’ll take care of themselves. Once they start breeding, we’ll have all the attention we need.”
Zulawski peered down into the box. “They are kind of cute.” He turned his head to an odd angle. “Is that an ear on its back?”
“Yes.”
“Can they hear us?”
“I would assume so.”
Zulawski stiffened. “This isn’t a trick by management, is it?” he whispered.
Vargas smiled confidently. “For management to be involved, it would have to be diabolical on a scale known only in Dante’s Hell and Casual Fridays.”
Zulawski turned his head straight again. “We have Casual Fridays?”
“The last Friday of every month.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” said Zulawski. He went back to his desk to check on the squid.
“It was for your own good,” said Vargas. “You once showed me a photo of you in a Hawaiian shirt. The last DOPS employee who wore a Hawaiian shirt is now hunting CHADs down in the sewers.”
“What are CHADs?”
“Carnivorously Horrifying Abysmal Denizens.”
Zulawski pondered that. “Shouldn’t it be ‘abyssal’?”
“Should what be?”
“‘Abyssal’ instead of ‘abysmal.’ ‘Abyssal’ means ‘underground.’”
Vargas crossed his arms. “Have you ever seen one?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t see how your opinion has any bearing.”