Froehlich peered through the front-door glass and saw that the place was full of security guards. He took a deep breath, went over his story in his head one more time, and knocked.
Carlson scowled at him through the window and straightened his tie. His neck strained against his tight collar like someone pulling a bedsheet around a veiny fire hydrant. He took a slow and leisurely walk to the front door and opened it a crack.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I’d like to come in,” said Froehlich.
“Why?”
“I work here.”
“Where have you been since the robbery?”
“Am I a suspect?”
“I don’t know. It depends on where you’ve been.”
Froehlich moved around, trying to see past Carlson. However, every time he moved, Carlson took a step to block his view.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Carlson said.
“Which question was that?”
Froehlich caught a glimpse of Mr. Klein in the lobby.
“Where have you been since the robbery?”
He didn’t have much time. Froehlich looked at Carlson. “Banging your mom.”
Carlson shoved the door open, but before he could crush Froehlich’s skull in one of his manhole-cover-size hands, Froehlich ducked and shouted between the big man’s legs.
“Mr. Klein! Hey, Mr. Klein!”
Klein stopped and headed for the door. “Froehlich? Is that you?”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to come inside, but I seem to be encumbered.”
Klein came up beside Carlson saying, “Step aside and let the man in. He’s a hero.”
Carlson took a grudging step to the right of the door, a colossal gargoyle looming in Froehlich’s peripheral vision. Klein, all smiles, grabbed Froehlich’s hand and pumped it hard several times.
“There you are. We’ve been worried about you,” he said. “After your heroic gun battle with the thieves, you disappeared. We were afraid you’d been kidnapped.”
Froehlich plastered on the smile he’d been practicing all morning as other security guards came over, many of them wanting to shake his hand. “Nope. Not kidnapped. Just a little dazed is all. It’s hard to remember anything.”
Klein and some of the guards nodded.
“Yes, everyone seems to have memory problems. The police theory is that the thieves somehow drugged everyone. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Gosh no. I guess I got lucky and got a little less of the gas than some people.”
“It’s not just that,” said Klein. “You fought back. None of these overpriced Barney Fifes did that. We found most of them asleep or wandering around like zombies.”
“I know the feeling.”
Klein put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him to the exhibit hall. “You did good the other night, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. There are big things happening here. Some serious opportunities for advancement after what happened to Baxter.”
Baxter. After his exciting new job as a slave, Froehlich had forgotten all about her. As innocently as he could, he said. “Ms. Baxter? What happened to her?”
As they reached the Egyptian exhibit Rockford, the insurance investigator, headed their way.
Klein said, “I have to get to a meeting. Rockford can give you the overview. Big things are happening and some of them have your name attached.”
“Thanks, Mr. Klein. That sounds great,” said Froehlich. For the briefest of moments he reconsidered his job prospects. Be a slave for all eternity to a scarecrow in a fleabag vent shaft or become a big wheel at the museum with a desk and a 401(k).
Pain shot through his head like a monkey with a steak knife.
Ow. I get it, Master. Bad dog. I got distracted for a second, but I’m back on the job now.
The monkey gave him one last poke and disappeared. Froehlich rubbed a knot out of the back of his neck. He wanted a drink, but Harkhuf had made him leave his flask back at the bungalow. Of all the mummies in the world that he could have become enslaved to, he had to get a buzzkill. The flicker of despair in the center of his being grew from an ember back into a small flame as Rockford got closer.
I swear, someone better hit me with a goddamned newspaper or I’m not going to make it to lunch.
Just as he was settling in for a new round of dread, Rockford came by and looked him over. “Good to see you, Froehlich. It seems I had you figured all wrong.”
Rockford put out his hand and Froehlich shook it, sure the other man was going to slap cuffs on him. Instead, Rockford gave him a sympathetic look.
“What happened to you after the gunfight? Where have you been?”
Froehlich froze, not so much like a deer in the headlights as a hang glider who’d just set a new altitude record being sucked into the engine of a 747.
“I don’t know,” he stammered. “I barely remember the night at all.”
Rockford tapped a pen on his notebook and looked around. “Neither does anybody else. And have you heard their stories? I suppose you saw clowns, too?”
“Yes. And something else . . .”
“A Martian?”
“No,” said Froehlich. “More like a TV set. I think it was showing a nature documentary. There was a cat. A lion? Yes. A documentary about lions?”
Rockford made another note.
“Lions? First time I heard about that, but it’s not anything stranger than what we already have.”
“Mr. Klein said something had happened to Ms. Baxter?”
Rockford smirked. “She’s under arrest. We found irrefutable evidence of her involvement in the mummy theft in her office.”
Good. The old biddy, thought Froehlich.
“You mean you found the mummy?” he said lightly.
Rockford shook his head. “Just part of one. But it’s enough. Airtight evidence.”
“That does sound pretty damning,” said Froehlich, trying not to laugh. His despair flame was shrinking back down to a flicker the more he thought about Baxter’s demise.
“She denies everything, of course,” said Rockford.
“What else is she going to do? Do you know what she did with it?”
“Not a clue. What can you do with a mummy?”
I threw the extra one I found in the Dumpster. I wonder if it met Gilbert in Dumb-ass Heaven?
“You can’t put it on eBay,” said Froehlich, trying to sound serious and thoughtful. “My guess would be she’d sell it to a private collector.”
“Really? There’s a lot of calls for mummies?”
“You know rich people. Half the stuff they buy is so they can show off to their friends,” said Froehlich. He shook his head disapprovingly. “The freakier the better. I mean, look at that movie star with a T. rex skull. What does a person do with something like that?”
Rockford made a note.
“A dinosaur skull. Who is this again?”
Froehlich looked around trying to spot his master’s objects of power. “I don’t remember, but there’s a million like him out there. And if it’s not rich movie stars, maybe it’s a cult,” he said gravely. “Charlie Manson types. God knows what someone like that would do with a mummy.”
Rockford looked serious. “You think Baxter would sell to someone like that?”
Froehlich leaned in and said in a low voice, “Hell, she might even be in the cult. With her money and connections, she could be a high priestess.”
Rockford looked dubious. “A society lady like that? I don’t know.”
“What about Patty Hearst? What about Elizabeth Báthory? She was a society lady.”
“Who’s that?”
“A demented countess who used to bathe in the blood of young peasant girls.”
“I think I saw a movie about her. Hungarian. What do you expect?” said Rockford evenly. His eyes narrowed. “You think Baxter could be mixed up in something like that?”
“I don’t know,” said Froehlich. “It depends on what
kind of cult she’s in.”
“This case just gets stranger and darker.”
You have no idea, thought Froehlich. He noticed bullet holes in the wall and remembered that he was the one who made them. He tried not to smile.
“Grill her hard,” he told Rockford. “I’ve read about these cult types. They don’t give up their secrets easily.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ll get them out of her.”
Rockford slapped his pen into his notebook and put it in his pocket.
Froehlich walked casually into the Egyptian exhibit. “So, what all did they get the other night?” he said.
He stopped in front of the empty display case.
“Everything in here. I have a list,” said Rockford. “A necklace. A knife. Various statues of dogs and falcons and whatnot. An amulet . . .”
Froehlich’s head whipped around. “An amulet? You’re sure it’s gone?” When he spoke the question, he felt his head tighten as something alien entered it.
“Why? Do you know anything about it?” said Rockford.
Storm clouds formed in Froehlich’s skull. It’s not going to be a fun night at the bungalow, he thought.
“No. I just remember seeing it. It was pretty.”
“I suppose,” said Rockford in a distracted tone. “Just between you and me, this is out of my field. I usually work on stolen art, diamonds, vintage cars. You know, real things. All of this . . . stuff . . . it’s just annoying. Dogs and birds. Who comes up with it?”
“Some of it is very beautiful. Let’s go over here,” Froehlich said.
They went to a display case that was still full of artifacts. It was unlocked. There were small cards next to each item with an inventory number on each.
“Don’t you think some of it is pretty at least?” Froehlich said.
Rockford shrugged. “Heathen crap.”
The monkey reappeared and tickled Froehlich’s skull with the point of the knife.
“Ow.”
“You okay?”
“Just a cramp,” he said. He pointed to a statuette in the front of the case. “What about her? She’s not an animal. She’s a person. Isis, I believe.”
“Yeah, but she hangs out with all these barnyard rejects. What’s her story, some kind of Tarzan-and-Jane thing?”
“Maybe we should take a closer look,” said Froehlich conspiratorially. He started to lift the display-case lid. Rockford laid a hand on top.
“Whoa. We can’t do that. All that stuff has to be accounted for.”
Froehlich’s head snapped toward him. He looked at Rockford hard because he had to.
Rockford’s face went slack.
Feel free to use me like a sock puppet, Master. There’s nothing weird about me standing here gazing into a detective’s eyes like I either want to kiss him or eat his brain. I’m sure nobody’s noticed us. That’s sarcasm, by the way. Did they have sarcasm three thousand years ago? I hope so because I’d hate for this to go to waste.
“Maybe you should open the case anyway,” said Froehlich. “I’ll wait over there. Get the Isis and the inventory slip.” He wandered calmly over to the other side of the exhibit hall.
A minute later, Rockford brought him the statuette. Froehlich slipped it into his jacket pocket. Rockford’s eyes were as blank as a fried cod’s.
“I should go,” Froehlich said. “But I’ve been dying to ask. Your name. Is it really Rockford? Like the TV detective?”
Rockford nodded. “Our mom changed our name. She said she ‘knew’ the actor.” He said “knew” with air quotes.
“Please tell me your first name is James.”
Rockford nodded. “Mom called me Jim.”
“Is that why you’re a detective?”
He stared straight ahead. “It was Mom’s idea.”
“What did you want to be?”
“A massage therapist.”
Froehlich tried not to laugh. “Forget the detective game. Forget this case. Get yourself some New Age music and one of those folding tables. Boom. You’re in business.”
“You have to take a test. It’s supposed to be hard.”
Froehlich clapped him on the arm. “Start studying. I have faith in you, Jim.”
Rockford blinked a couple of times. “Is that all?”
“One more thing. Grow a ponytail, too. That’s mandatory in California.”
“A ponytail,” he said blankly.
Froehlich watched Rockford's eyes return to normal.
“It was nice talking to you, Jim,” Froehlich said.
“You, too,” Rockford said. He started to walk away and stopped. “Is there somewhere around here to get scented baby oil?”
“What for?”
Rockford frowned. “I’m not entirely sure,” he said, and wandered off.
That was fun. Now I get the master-and-thrall thing. I could get used to this.
The monkey jabbed him.
Just kidding, boss.
Froehlich started back to the museum lobby when Carlson got in front of him.
“I saw what you did,” the big man said.
Froehlich froze. Again. I really have to get a better poker face if we’re going to take over the world. He touched the Isis in his pocket while calculating how far it was to the door and if he could he make it before being mowed down by a meat locomotive in a uniform.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Big hero. Cozying up to Rockford. You think you’re a detective now? Well, you’re not. You couldn’t protect bacon from a Chihuahua.”
Froehlich could feel Harkhuf’s annoyance as he stood there dithering. He pointed to the empty display case. “After the robbery, I heard that they found you counting sheep. I hope you kept a better eye on them than you did on the exhibit.”
“That was my gun you stole to shoot at the clowns. Don’t ever touch my weapon again,” growled Carlson. He grabbed Froehlich by the arm. “Time for you to go, hero.”
Froehlich finally stopped dithering and decided instead to be terrified. When Carlson grabbed him, he slapped his hand over his pocket.
The big man pushed Froehlich’s hand away. “What have you got there?”
“Your mom’s ass,” said Froehlich as Harkhuf took control of his mouth.
Carlson grabbed him by the throat. Froehlich looked him in the eye and managed to croak, “You’re my thrall.”
Carlson’s eyes went glassy. “I’m your thrall.”
“First off, how about you stop choking me?” said Froehlich.
Carlson let him go. Froehlich took a couple of deep breaths, but kept his eyes on the big man.
“If anyone figures out that the Isis is missing, you’re going to run away,” he said. Then added, “And flap your arms and cluck like a chicken.”
“If someone figures out that the Isis is missing, I’ll run away.”
“And flap your arms and cluck like a chicken.”
“And flap my arms and cluck like a chicken,” said Carlson.
“If Rockford questions you, tell him he should learn to work with his hands. Maybe carpentry. Or better yet, massage.”
“Carpentry or better yet, massage.”
“Good boy. And since we’re having a moment here, I feel the need to confess something to someone and you look out of it enough to be safe,” said Froehlich. He looked around. “I like being ordered around.”
“Ordered around,” said Carlson blankly.
“There. I feel better for having said it out loud. Now forget it. But remember Rockford’s hands and the other thing.”
From across the exhibit hall, someone said, ‘Hey, is there something missing from this case?”
Carlson’s eyes went wide. “Braraaach!” he yelled, and rushed away flapping his arms. The other security guards dashed after him.
Froehlich strolled out the front door and got in his Camry. He’d ruined just enough lives today to feel really good about the doomed direction he knew his had taken.
27
 
; Minerva was dead tired. She’d barely slept the previous night, studying obscure old books, ancient pamphlets, medieval scrolls, and a used paperback of The Black Arts for Dummies.
It was all gobbledygook.
She just didn’t have the head for putting the whammy on people. Even with Dross gone, she was reasonably sure she could pull off a crooked séance, and if she brushed up on some of the patter she’d bribed from a carnie acquaintance, even do a soupçon of bogus mind reading. But actual magic? It was all invoking this and woo-woo that. Trying to understand it was like pushing soup up an escalator. If Kellar didn’t get that wobbly sack of custard he called an ass up here soon, she’d be stuck reading the cards for morons like this bimbo . . . what was her name? Judy? Julie? Something with a J . . . for-fucking-ever.
“This card is your past,” said Minerva.
“What do you see?” said J. She was a dye-job redhead and only pushing thirty-five, but she’d already gone through at least three nose jobs. And not great ones. Her perky little proboscis reminded Minerva of the bunny slope at a cut-rate ski lodge.
“Love,” said Minerva in a slightly dreamy voice, careful not to lay it on too thick. “A love that didn’t end the way you wanted.”
“You mean Robert?” said J excitedly.
Bingo.
“Yes, Robert.”
“What do the cards say about him?”
This was too easy, thought Minerva. That many nose jobs and the reading is always about lost love. At least one of those nose jobs was for Mr. Wrong.
“This is your future,” Minerva said, carefully dealing a card from the bottom of the deck. It was the Lovers, a couple of naked morons being watched over in the sky by a winged peeping tom. Or maybe it was Cupid or Glinda, the Good Witch. Who cared? It always worked.