Stories: All-New Tales (Page 38)
“Will we see each other again?” I asked.
“I won’t leave you either,” she said with certainty.
“Why not? You hardly know me.”
“I know you better than I’ve known any man,” she said. “You saved my life. And I think that’s what you were made for—saving lives.”
3.
I TOOK AN OFFICE on the top floor of the Antwerp Building and put up a sign that read: JUVENAL NYX: PROBLEM SOLVER.
I fastened little business cards to phone booths and bulletin boards around the city, had Iridia’s brother, Montrose, make me a small Web site, and took out an ad in two free papers. I borrowed the money for these investments from some of my wealthier victims. I plan to pay them back and so have chosen to overlook the undue influence I had over them.
I decided on the path of self-employment because this is against the nature of my being. Creatures like me are supposed to be hidden in the night, secreted away from the world in general. We’re supposed to live off humanity, not aid people with their real and imagined plights.
It was time for me to go against the tide of my fate.
My business hours are from sunset to dawn, and I will listen to any problem, any problem at all—from severe acne to the threat of death or imprisonment. I accept and reject jobs, collect fees based on the client’s ability to pay, and spend every weekend with Iridia.
I find missing persons, cure a variety of minor illnesses, and even save a life now and then.
Tarver Lamone hates me, but I don’t worry about him. I can usually sense danger when it’s near and it’s pretty hard to do me harm. I worry about Iridia sometimes, but she is so certain about right and wrong, and her own indecipherable path, that I have not figured out how to say no to her.
And I am addicted to her nearness. Once, when she had to go home to California for three weeks, I fell into a state of near catatonia that lasted for almost a month. It took Iridia and Montrose breaking into my subterranean condo and her sitting with me for hours to bring me back to consciousness.
IT DOESN’T SOUND LIKE the good life, I know, but it has its bright sides. Every day I get calls from people who need someone like me. I’ve helped children with their homework and ladies shake their stalkers. I cured one man of acrophobia and permanently paralyzed a serial killer who wanted to stop his trade.
Everything was going fine until one early morning, at six minutes past twelve, when a woman walked into my office.
I’m six feet and one half inch in height. She was quite a bit taller than I, with skin whiter than maggots’ flesh. Her hair was luxurious, long and black. She might have been beautiful if it hadn’t been for the intensity of her laser green eyes. The gown she wore was either black or green, maybe both, and her high-heeled shoes seemed to be made from red glass.
“Mr. Nyx?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, feeling an unfamiliar wave of fear.
“You’re young.”
“I’m older than I look.”
She glanced around my office. The décor was much like my underground home. There were three straight-backed oak chairs and a small round oak table under the window that looked out on Brooklyn. The only decoration that hung on the wall was a watercolor of a patch of weeds in the bright sun.
“May I sit?” she asked. Her voice was neither masculine nor feminine, hardly was it human, it sounded so rich and deep.
“Certainly,” I said.
She lowered herself into the closest chair and I sat across from her. She looked into my eyes and I concentrated on not looking away. This made her smile. It was a predatory smile—on this subject I consider myself an expert.
She was beautiful in the way that fire is, dangerous and untouchable.
Her nostrils flared and then, after a minute had passed, she handed me a card that read ÒËÓ¤Í Î. ¯¤Ò¡ÌË in red lettering at the lower left-hand corner.
That was all, no job title, profession, address, or phone. There was no e-mail or emblem. If you didn’t know what that name meant, then you didn’t know anything.
“How can I help you, Ms. Demola?”
She smiled and stared for another spate of seconds.
“The painting surprises me,” she said at last.
“Why?”
“Your hours, your profession. You don’t seem like a sun worshipper.”
“My girlfriend’s a painter. She gave me that for an office-warming present.”
“Serious?” she said.
“Come again?”
“Is it serious between you?”
“Why are you here, Ms. Demola?”
“I’ve lost my pet.” Her smile would seduce emperors and frighten children.
“Dog?”
“A rare breed, large and quite vicious.”
“I don’t know…”
“I worry that Reynard may be dangerous.”
The light in her eyes shifted, and either I was made to pay attention or the words themselves moved me.
“Dangerous how?”
“He’s a carnivore and he’s large,” she said in way of explanation.
“If a dog’s attacking people in the city, I’m sure animal control will be out after it.”
“Reynard is a sewer rat in spite of his size. I believe that he’s found his way into the abandoned subway tunnels under the city. There are, I believe, people living down there, people who might not be on the radar of your animal control.”
I’d spent some time in the various abandoned catacombs beneath the city. I’ve hunted there and spent some relaxing days deep under the ground, away from the sounds of the city.
“How big are we talking?”
“Big.”
Mahey carried a large white bag that looked to be made of some kind of na**d flesh. From the sack she took a blue velvet roll, maybe a foot and a half in length. This she handed to me.
I unfurled the cloth, revealing a simple black knife, somewhat less than a foot long. The handle was part and parcel of the metal blade.
“Carry this with you,” she said.
“I didn’t say I was taking the job.”
“Don’t let’s be coy, Mr. Nyx.”
I wanted to argue further, but instead I rolled the dark metal blade back up and stood.
“I guess I better be getting to work then.”
“You can see me to my car downstairs,” she said, a little less formal than she had been.
When we got into the close quarters of the elevator, I was assailed by the odor of deep woods. It wasn’t a sweet smell, but there was lightness and dark, decay and new growth. It was almost overpowering.