Someone picked up and breathed heavily. “What?” The accent was foreign to Franco, although it reminded him of the old Christopher Lee Dracula movies.
“Mr. Wary, hey. Could I have a few minutes of your time? I’m downstairs—”
“I heard you buzzing my intercom. I hate that buzzing. That brash, persistent noise drills straight through my eardrum. No, I think you sound like an oaf, a knuckle dragger. A second generation Italian mongrel, perhaps.”
Franco made a fist with his free hand and squeezed until his knuckles cracked. “Very sorry, sir. I just need five minutes. Maybe less. You know a friend of mine. Carol—”
Mr. Wary breathed into the phone. He made an odd noise in his throat. “Then I am convinced I am not interested in your company. My business with her is not for you. Goodbye.”
The line went dead. Franco stared at his cell for a several moments. He carefully folded and put it away. He cracked the knuckles of his right hand. It was a long climb to the seventh floor, but there was no chance of his risking the elevator again. He felt homicidal enough without exacerbating his dire mood with an outbreak of latent claustrophobia. By the fourth floor he’d come to regret his decision. His legs were soft from spending too many hours on his ass in limousines and holding down barstools. He’d given up weightlifting and jogging. The endless columns of booze and stacks of unfiltered cigarettes made his sporadic appearances at the gym painful.
He hesitated at Mr. Wary’s door to try the knob — locked. He wiped his brow with the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. Mr. Wary’s apartment lay near the stairwell at the far end of the corridor opposite the elevator. The passages in The Broadsword Hotel were slightly wider and taller than typical of such buildings, rounded and ribbed at the peak in a classical manner. Gauzy light filled the window alcove above the stairwell. Shadows stretched long fingers across the carpet and most of the hallway remained in gloom. A fly complained in a darkened overhead light globe.
Franco tucked away the handkerchief and slipped his stiletto from its ankle sheath. He never carried a pistol when off duty. There wasn’t much reason to — unlike thugs such as Carol’s ex, he didn’t need to moonlight as an enforcer. His time off was free and uncomplicated.
Mr. Wary hadn’t engaged the deadbolt, so Franco easily jimmied the lock and pushed through the door. The apartment was cramped and hot and smelled of must and moldering paper. Centered in the living area was a leather couch, matching armchairs and a pair of ornate floor lamps, all from a bygone era. Mr. Wary owned numerous paintings of foreign pastorals, vine-choked temples and ziggurats, and men and women in peculiar dress. In a corner was an antique writing desk and above its hutch, poster advertisements of magic shows. Several were illustrations of a man in fanciful robes and bejeweled turban, presumably Mr. Wary himself, presiding over various scenes of prestidigitation that generally featured buxom assistants in low-cut blouses.
A yellow cat hissed at Franco’s approach and darted behind the couch.
“So it’s like this, is it?” Mr. Wary leaned against the frame of the entrance to the kitchen. Short and brutish, his silver and black hair touched the collar of his expensive white dress shirt. His craggy face was powdered white, his eyes deeply recessed so they glinted like those of a calculating animal. His eyelids were painted blue and his lips carmine. He wore baggy pants and sandals that curved up at the toe. He sneered at Franco, baring a full set of sharp, white teeth. “This wasn’t wise of you.”
“Hello, Phil,” Franco said, bouncing the knife in his hand. He casually reached back and pulled the door closed. “As I was saying, we really need to have a discussion about Carol. You’ve been trying to help her quit smoking, I hear. Your methods seem unorthodox. She’s acting squirrely.”
“Her treatment is no concern of yours. You’d do well to depart before matters go too far.”
Franco bent and sheathed his blade. He straightened and cracked his knuckles and took a couple of steps further into the room. “Yes, yes, it does in fact concern me. I don’t like how she’s acted lately. I think you’ve fucked with her head, got her hooked on dope, I dunno. But I plan to figure it out.”
“Fool. Love is a poison in that regard. It robs men of their common sense, inveigles them to pursue their own damnation. If it allays your worry, I promise no drugs are involved. No coercion. A touch of chicanery, yes.”
“That doesn’t sound very nice.”
“You’re not a complete barbarian. You comprehend simple words and phrases.”
Franco’s smile sharpened and he moved slowly toward Mr. Wary, sliding his belt free of his pants loops as he went. “Keep talking, old man. I might enjoy this after all.”
“She has a virus of the mind and it’s rather transmittable, I’m afraid.” Mr. Wary squinted at him. He nodded. “Ah, that’s who you are. Such an interesting coincidence. I know your employer. His late, lamented Uncle Theodore as well.”
“Jacob?” Franco hesitated. He doubled the tongue of his belt around his wrist and let the buckle dangle. “And, exactly how is that?”
“Olympia is a small town. On occasion we’ve done business. Your master has, shall we say, esoteric interests. As I am a man of esoteric talents, it’s a match made in … well, somewhere.”
“Carol says you’re a washed up magician. Nice posters. You do anyplace famous? Vegas? The Paramount? Nah; you aren’t any David Copperfield. You were a two bit showman. A hack.” Franco itched to smack him in the mouth; should have done it already. The old man’s contempt, his sneer, was disquieting and stayed Franco’s hand for the moment as he reevaluated his surroundings, trying to detect the real source of his unease. “Your hands are gone, so now you hustle dumb broads for whatever’s in their purses. I get you, Phil.”
“Magician? Magician? I’m a practitioner of the black arts. Seventh among the Salamanca Seven. You understand what I mean when I speak of the black arts, don’t you boy? Since you refuse to leave me in peace, would you care for a drink? Too late now, anyway. I have one every afternoon. The doctor says it’s good for my heart.” Mr. Wary went to a cabinet and took down a crystal decanter and a pair of copitas. He poured two generous glasses of sherry and handed one to Franco. Mr. Wary sat in an armchair. He clicked his nails on the glass and the cat emerged from hiding and sprang into his lap. “Magician? Feh, I’m a sorcerer, a warlock.”
“A warlock, huh?” Franco remained standing. He tasted the sherry, then drained his copita and tossed it against the wall. The small crash and tinkle of broken glass temporarily satisfied his need to inflict pain upon his host. “There’s no fucking such thing, my friend.”
“That was a valuable glass. I acquired the set in Florence. It survived the Second World War.” Mr. Wary’s eyelids fluttered and he smiled with the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I practice mesmerism. Yes, I pulled rabbits from hats and pretended to saw nubile women in half. I am conversant in many things, sleight of hand being among these. Camouflage, boy. And amusement. One meets fascinating people in that line. However, my bread and butter, my life’s work, lies in peeling back the layers of occult mysteries. I was preparing your delectable girlfriend for myself. Ripening and fattening her on the ineffable wonder of the dark. Upon further reflection, I’ve decided to let you have her.”
“What the fuck are you on, man?” Franco imagined poor Carol blithely acquiescing to Mr. Wary’s charms — Franco recognized a predator when he met one. Doubtless the old man with his eccentric garb and quaint accent could pour on the charm. And dear God, what did the creepy bastard do to her when she was incapacitated on that decaying couch? “You sonofabitch. You crazy, fucked up sonofabitch.” He whipped the belt buckle across Mr. Wary’s face. “You’re not going to see her again. She calls you, don’t answer. She knocks on your door, you don’t answer. She tries to talk to you in the hall, you go the other way.” Franco punctuated each directive with a slap of his belt buckle while the man sat there, absorbing the abuse. It wasn’t until the fourth or fifth swipe that he realized his victim was grinning.