Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black) (30 page)

The fourth time never happened.

He waited a couple of minutes longer. Just as he levered himself off the desk, what felt like a cannon filled with cotton balls exploded inside his skull and the door to the stairs opened.

“Shit.”

Jonathan, worried about the damage done by the memitim, raised the gun in his right hand. He wanted to see if he could hold it steady enough to take a decent shot.

That was when the woman appeared in his doorway. With a shriek, she jumped back.

The file folder she had been carrying fell to the floor and white papers slid out of it like a snake from its skin.

“And just what in the hell are you?” Jonathan demanded while trying not to let the gun waver.

“I—um—I’ll just go,” stammered the woman, pushing a lock of curly blonde hair from in front of her plump face.

“Amanojaku?” questioned Jonathan, trying to see how the middle-aged woman before him could provoke his darkest desires. “You’re a Japanese demon that’s going to instigate me into perpetrating wicked deeds?” He looked her over again. “Really?”

“What? No! What kind of job is this?” the woman exclaimed.

“It may be your job. Mine is to stop you from taking him. And I’ve been rolling sevens all day,” Jonathan said, although he felt more like a beaten boxer then a Vegas high roller.

“I’m really not sure what you’re talking about. I came for the job—the one advertised in the Herald. But even with free lunches, I don’t think it’s the kind of work I’m willing to do.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said, lowering the gun. “Right—that.”

“I’ll just pick up my resumes.” The woman glanced down at the papers on the floor. “If it’s okay with you?”

“What religion are you?”

“Pardon?”

“Religion, what religion?”

“Are you . . . interviewing me?”

“Do you want the job?”

“I—I really don’t know.”

She glanced at the gun and then at the spill of paper on the floor. With a sigh, she asked, “It isn’t anything kinky, is it?”

“You’ve read too many of the wrong books. I do not sleep with my secretaries, madam.”

“Oh. Oh! It’s a secretary job.”

“Yes. What did you think it was?”

“Well, I—honestly, the ad is a little vague.”

“I need a new secretary. Do you want the job?”

“Yes. I mean, I think I do.”

“Do you smoke?”

“The ad said it was a smoking environment. It was clear about that,” the woman pointed out.

“Yes, because I smoke, but that wasn’t the question.”

“Yes, I smoke.”

“Good. I can bum yours if I run out.”

“Are you seriously considering me for the job?” asked the woman who had now crouched down to stuff the loose papers back into the file folder.

“Do you want it?”

The woman stopped bothering with her resumes for a moment.

She looked at Jonathan, the gun in his hand, the cuts on his face and hands. She glanced about the dingy front office.

Finally, she stood and asked, “You can, actually, pay me—right?”

“Every week.”

Heaving a sigh of resignation, she responded, “God help me. Yeah, I want it.”

“Fine. See you Monday morning at ten. Bring me a black coffee.”

“Do you want to see . . .?” she asked, holding out one of the pages from her folder. She then shook her head and put it back with the others. “I’ll see you Monday, then.”

Jonathan waited for her to go.

He heard her stop in front of the elevator then say to herself, “Think I’m better taking the stairs.”

A moment later, the door to the stairs opened and swung shut.

Jonathan thought about his new secretary. She had worked around the confusion spell and had been, generally, rather calm about having a gun pointed at her.

“She could work out. Desperation makes for good employees.”

He went back into his office to find Wendell standing at the edge of the protective circle.

“Did I hear correctly? Did you just hire a secretary?”

“Apparently. She still has to actually show up for her first day, but she seemed accepting of the idea.”

“Yes, she did,” Wendell agreed and seemed perplexed by the concept.

“Ready for some dinner?” Jonathan asked, settling behind his desk again.

Night had come far too early for Jonathan’s liking and, although the old clock said only eight, the sky had been a sunless black for over two hours.

Wendell had done well so far, given the stretch of time he had been cooped up in the office. He just wasn’t used to it, however.

Jonathan had gone for days hardly leaving his car while trailing people for clients. He’d also spent many a stretch of time at St. Dympna confined to one room.

He could easily have done another two days of this, but Wendell seemed to have reached the end of his rope.

Jonathan clued in when the lanky man began pacing.

It had started ten minutes earlier and, although Wendell walked quite slowly, it was plainly obvious he had cabin fever.

Jonathan wished there was something he could do for his client. Unfortunately, besides watching the clock tick away the minutes, there wasn’t.

Jonathan had gotten up a few times to double-check the wards, the salt, and even the protection circle. He kept the brazier going, switching up the ingredients every time in hopes of maximizing the effectiveness of the smoke that hung in the air.

He had done these things so he wouldn’t be caught off guard, but also so he made certain to move around occasionally.

In a situation like this, Jonathan knew, it was best to move occasionally, so his muscles didn’t cramp or his limbs fall asleep.

In his current condition, it became even more important.

A body as battered as his fell into a useless state faster; hurt muscles stiffened and responded slower, less efficiently.

Jonathan wanted to move to remember just how bad the pummelings of the last couple of days had been. That way, the pain didn’t trip him up when he needed to move quickly.

They had to pass another four hours of this self-inflicted imprisonment to run out the day. Jonathan’s plan for his client actually included an extra half hour in the office, just to be on the safe side.

Jonathan knew his clock could be off a few minutes on either side. Waiting the extra thirty minutes was a worthwhile precaution.

At quarter to nine, Wendell flopped back into his chair with a sigh of frustration.

He lit a cigarette but hardly smoked it. He picked up the book he’d been reading only to put it down again almost immediately.

He checked his watch then, calling himself a fool for forgetting it had stopped, got up to look at the clock mounted over the doorway.

However, as soon as he saw it, he groaned and flopped back down again.

Jonathan got an idea how he might relieve some of Wendell’s restlessness. That he hadn’t thought of it sooner surprised him.

“I assume you play chess, Wendell?”

“Yes, I enjoy a game or two,” Wendell said with eagerness.

“Well, then, once I hunt up the board and pieces, why don’t we have a game?”

“I’d like that.” He looked at Jonathan. “I’ve been bugging you, haven’t I?”

“No matter. I’m just used to this and you’re not, that’s all.” Turning away, he started searching the office. “I know the set is still here, it’s just a matter of where.”

Jonathan searched on top of filing cabinets, in bookshelves, under stacks of newspaper articles, and through his desk drawers. He even looked in the closet. Although, having tidied it up just that morning, he felt fairly sure it wasn’t there. It was all to no avail.

When he decided to search the outer office, he managed to find the chess pieces in an old cardboard box on the lowest shelf of the bookcase. The board seemed to be nowhere nearby. After almost half an hour, he discovered the folded board under a seat cushion of the small couch in the outer office.

Jonathan couldn’t, for the life of him, figure what it had been doing there, but at least now they could play.

They set up the board on the small table next to Wendell’s seat and started the game.

It quickly became obvious who, of the two of them, was the superior player. Wendell kept Jonathan on the defensive the entire game.

Jonathan knew it was only a matter of time until he was forced to lay down his king. He played the best game he could, however.

He had suggested playing chess not to win, but to distract Wendell. The longer he could draw out the conflict on the board, the closer they came to the close of the day.

When Jonathan did finally lay down his king, he suggested a second round, honestly doubting the offer would be accepted. He worried that Wendell would decline a second match with a competitor he could guarantee he’d beat, but Wendell agreed readily.

In the hope of keeping it enjoyable for his client, Jonathan tried to play a different game than he had before, one with a more aggressive strategy. He didn’t last as long.

His attempt to be a more dynamic opponent simply led to his losing pieces faster, with less ability to defend what little he had when he felt forced to change his tactics back.

Jonathan didn’t offer to play a third time.

He had managed to eat up some time and Wendell did seem less restless. If they stopped now, Jonathan reasoned, should his client start jittering again in a couple hours, he could offer another game to get them through the last hour.

Setting the board and pieces aside on top of the bookshelf, Jonathan shared some humorous anecdotes from other cases he had been on while they smoked and sipped their bourbon.

Wendell showed how his life had been irrevocably changed by this experience when he asked, “So, the things from last night . . .”

“The sluagh?”

“Yes, they were uncommon, not usual?”

“That’s true, quite uncommon. Lucky you.” Jonathan raised his glass in mock salute.

“That implies there are regular creatures out there. That in the city, everyday things of myth are out there.”

Jonathan nodded. “Yeah, they are. That’s why I do this, so they don’t run rampant.”

Wendell took a sip of his drink. He rubbed his cheek and twisted his lips before he continued. “Why don’t we know? I mean, until this happened to me . . .”

“Consensual reality,” Jonathan said, and let Wendell think on it while he lit his cigarette.

“You mean because we agree it can’t be real, it isn’t?” He frowned. “But it is . . . isn’t it?”

Jonathan chuckled. “Something like that. People start out life believing in just about everything. But as we get older, we are taught that our imaginary friends are not only not real, but frowned on—discouraged. One by one, beliefs are stripped away. You are made fun of, or disciplined, for things that don’t fit everyone’s beliefs.

“A child says a little person knocked over the milk, they get punished for lying. No one thinks to stop and really look hard at the floor to see if there are little milky footprints leading away.  This behavior teaches the brain to build walls and buffers. Eventually, the brain reprograms itself to not see the things it is not supposed to believe in.

“A troll attacks a man, his brain adjusts the facts, and it becomes an ugly homeless man. A man transforms into a wolf, the news is talking about special effects, hoaxes. Soon after, the eyewitnesses are saying the man didn’t become a wolf, but had been attacked by a wolf and dragged off.”

“Were-wolves are real,” Wendell stated with a tone of disgusted awe.

Jonathan thought of Frank and realized he had more reasons to kept his condition secret than Jonathan had originally conceived of.

“Yes, almost everything from myth exists in some variation of it. But remember this, Wendell, those that still insist, at forty, the little people knocked over the milk, most often are locked up and given a steady diet of anti-psychotics.”

“Oh,” he frowned. “That’s rather sad.”

Jonathan nodded.

“So, magicians are those who never stopped believing in the little people, for one reason or another—like you seeing ghosts,” Wendell said.

“Magicians pull rabbits from hats. I’m a practitioner. But yes—often it goes hand in hand. Seeing ghosts is a common trait for those with strong talent. If I had anyone around me who had known, they would have started teaching me as soon as I showed I could be responsible.”

“But not everybody has the talent?”

“No . . . well, not strong enough to actually harness it. Most people aware of the esoteric arts believe the potential to harness energy is present in everyone, just not at a level that can be applied.”

“They no longer believe in their invisible friend.”

“Quite possibly,” Jonathan agreed.

“So, if not spotted at a young age, how is it anyone actually starts? How does someone become a practitioner?”

Hearing Wendell voice the last question worried Jonathan.

He knew once someone had made up their mind, you couldn’t stop them from developing an addiction. Some might argue the backward nature of the statement, but Jonathan knew better.

Magic was easy to accept, as it looked so harmless. It didn’t come as easy to find ‘real life’ dissuaders either.

You could bring someone to a back alley and show them a junkie selling their scab-covered, emaciated, shaking body just for another hit. You could walk them through a hospital ward to show shriveled, grey-skinned people gasping desperately at their oxygen masks, as a deterrent to smoking.