Stories: All-New Tales

“I know,” she barely managed and kissed him on the cheek.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Same old same old,” she said and sighed.

He was supposed to laugh but only managed a smile. They turned away from each other. As he skirted the dance floor on the return journey, Dex looked up at Nabob and saw the performer, midsong, flash a glance at him and then nod toward the table. There was Killheffer, sporting a tux and his so-called smile of a hundred teeth, smoking a Wrath Majestic and staring into the sky.

Arriving at the table, Dex took his seat across from Killheffer, who, still peering upward, said, “Gin wrinkles, I presumed.”

Dex noticed the fresh round of drinks, and reached for his.

“The stars are excited tonight,” said Killheffer, lowering his gaze.

“Too bad I’m not,” said Dex. “What’s it gonna be this time, Professor? Russian roulette? One card drawn from the bottom of a deck cut three ways? The blindfolded knife thrower?”

“You love to recall my miscalculations,” said Killheffer. “Time breaks down, though, only through repetition.”

“I’m fed up with your cockeyed bullshit.”

“Well, don’t be, because I tell you I’ve got it. I’ve done the math. How badly do you want out?”

“Want out?” said Dex. “I don’t even know how I got in. Tell me again you’re not the devil.”

“I’m a simple professor of circumstance and fate. An academic with too strong an imagination.”

“Then why that crazy smile? All your antics? That cigar of yours smells like what I vaguely remember of the ocean.”

“I’ve always been a gregarious fellow and prized a good cigar. The hundred-tooth thing is a parlor trick of multiplication.”

“I’m so f**king tired,” Dex said.

Killheffer reached into his jacket pocket and brought forth a hypodermic needle. He laid it on the table. “That’s the solution,” he said.

The large hypo’s glass syringe contained a jade green liquid.

Dex stared at it and shook his head. Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes. “Are you kidding? That’s it? That’s the saddest f**king thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You have to trust me,” said Killheffer, still smiling.

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re here again. What is it? Poison? Cough syrup? Junk?”

“My own special mixture of oblivion; a distillation of equations for free will. I call it ‘Laughter in the Dark,’” said the professor, proudly smoothing back his slick black hair.

Dex couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a malicious crackpot, but okay, let’s get on with it. What’s the deal this time?”

“Mondrian is, right at this moment, upstairs, on the third floor, in Sizzle Parlor number four, awaiting a female associate of mine who has promised him exotic favors, but unfortunately will never deliver. Instead, you will arrive. I want him dead.” Killheffer hurriedly tamped out his cigar and snapped his fingers to the passing cigarette girl. She stopped next to Dex and opened the case that hung by a strap around her shoulders. There were no cigarettes, just something covered by a handkerchief.

“You think of everything,” said Dex and reached in to grab the gun. He stood and slipped it into the waist of his pants. “How do I collect?”

“The cure will be delivered before the night is through,” said the professor. “Hurry, Mondrian can only forgo his beloved tips for so long.”

“What do you have against him?” Dex asked as he lifted his hat off the chair beside him.

“He’s a computational loop,” said Killheffer. “A real zero-sum game.”

At the head of the long, dark hallway on the third floor of the pavilion, Dex was stopped by the night man, an imposing fellow with a bald head and a sawed-off shotgun in his left hand.

“What’s news, Jeminy?” said Dex.

“Obviously, you are, Dex. Looking for a room?”

He nodded.

“Ten dollars. But for you, for old times’ sake, ten dollars,” said Jeminy and laughed.

“You’re too good to me,” said Dex, a ten spot appearing in his hand. “The lady’ll be along any minute.”

“Sizzle Parlor number five,” the big man said, his voice echoing down the long hall. “Grease that griddle, my friend.”

“Will do,” said Dex and before long slowed his pace and looked over his shoulder to check that Jeminy had again taken his seat facing away, toward the stairwell. He passed door after door, and after every six a weak gas lamp glowed on either wall. As he neared parlor number four, he noticed the door was open a sliver, but it was dark inside. Brandishing the gun, he held it straight up in front of him.

Opening the door, he slipped inside, and shut it quietly behind him. Moonlight shone in through one tall, arched window, but Dex could only make out shadows. He scanned the room, and slowly the forms of chairs, a coffee table, a vanity, and, off to the side of the room, a bed became evident to him. Sitting up on the edge of that bed was a lumpen silhouette, atop it, the telltale shape of the fez.

“Is it you, my desert flower?” came the voice of Mondrian.

Dex swiftly crossed the room. When he was next to the figure, and had surmised where his victim’s left temple might be, he cocked the gun’s hammer with his thumb and wrapped his index finger around the trigger. Before he could squeeze off the shot, though, the slouched bag of shadow that was Mondrian lunged into him with terrific force. Dex, utterly surprised that the meek little fellow would have the gumption to attack, fell backward, tripping on the rug, the gun flying off into the dark. He tried to get to his feet, but the maitre d’ landed on him like nine sandbags, one hand grabbing his throat. No matter how many times Dex managed a punch to Mondrian’s face, the shadow of the fez never toppled away. They rolled over and over and then partially into the moonlight. Dex saw the flash of a blade above him, but his arms were now pinned by his assailant’s knees. Unable to halt the knife’s descent, he held his breath in preparation for pain. Then the lights went on, there was a gunshot, and his attacker fell off him.

Dex scrabbled to his feet and turned to find Adeline, standing next to the open door, the muzzle of the gun still smoking. From down the hall, he heard Jeminy blow his whistle, an alert to the Ice Garden’s force of leg breakers.

“Nice shot, baby,” he said. “Kill the lights and close the door.”