Brian McClellan
UNCANNY COLLATERAL
2019
Chapter 1
It was a cool spring evening as I sat in my truck in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania, watching the parking lot of a run-down bikers’ bar gradually fill up with leather-chap-wearing skinheads. I lay with my head against the doorframe of the open driver’s-side window and my feet on the dashboard. A local ’80s station crackled through my radio, and an almost-empty bag of honey-roasted cashews rested in the crook of my arm. I kept my baseball cap pulled low. To the casual observer, I was just a drunk sleeping off an early bender.
I scratched at the tattoo of Mjolnir on the back of my right hand, trying to remember what the local cops had said about this place. As far as I could tell, it didn’t even have a proper name, just a generic white sign that said bar in large red letters. It was owned by a gang who called themselves the Dirty Imps. They ran a few rackets around town: meth, weed, and a little bit of protection. They weren’t terribly ambitious, though, and spent more of their time fishing at the local reservoir than getting up to petty crime.
There’s an imp taking a piss in the woods back there, a voice said in my head. The voice belonged to a woman and held a hint of a dozen different accents that all seemed to attach themselves to different words; it was a lyrical sound that came off as both young and incredibly old.
The old guy with the beard and leather vest? I answered. I thought he went inside.
Not a biker. An actual imp.
Slowly, I reached up and tilted my rearview mirror. I caught sight of a thin, bald figure standing a few dozen yards behind the truck, head tilted back in that way tired men often did when they relieved themselves. After a few moments, the figure looked down, gave one leg a good shake, and headed back inside, passing my open window close enough that I could have reached out and touched him.
The imp was about five feet tall – few grew taller than that – and wore jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Like most imps, he had large ears, a small nose, and the emaciated look and gross vibe of a meth addict. The average human, whether or not they can recognize an imp on sight, naturally avoids them. I snorted. I’ve never seen an imp in flannel before. What’s he doing out here anyway? I thought they normally keep to the cities.
He washes dishes for the kitchen of the bar.
Will he be an issue?
Nope.
Then why did you bring him to my attention?
Because I know how much you hate imps.
I sighed and put the imp out of my mind. He’s not my problem.
All right, all right, the voice answered defensively. Just trying to be helpful.
You’re the most helpful person I know. It wasn’t a lie, either. Maggie could be easily distracted – especially on stakeouts – but she’d saved my life a dozen times. She and I were partners of a sort – the accidental, unwilling-but-making-the-best-of-it sort. A few years back, when I was young and dumb, I put on a ring I found in a debtor’s cash box. The ring didn’t come off – still won’t. Just as surely as I’m trapped wearing the ring, Maggie is trapped inside the ring. Jinn are desert spirits who long for the freedom of big, empty stretches of wilderness. They don’t want to be stuck on the finger of a working schmuck based out of Cleveland, Ohio.
Maggie’s reply was cut off by the sound of big engines coming up the road. A few moments later, a trio of men parked their Harleys on the far side of the lot. I ignored two of them, focusing on the tallest of the three. William Hadley – or Dirty Billy, according to police blotters – looked about six foot three and forty years old, with an ample beer belly. Billy wore leather chaps over jeans, a black leather vest, no helmet, and he sported a short goatee and a shaved head.
I didn’t bother to check the picture on my phone. He, I told Maggie, is my problem. I slowly eased up in my seat and waited until the big biker and his companions had gone inside before I stepped out of the car. Keep your eyes peeled. If more of Billy’s friends show up, let me know ASAP. I touched Maggie’s ring out of habit, then made sure my Glock was secure in my shoulder holster. I didn’t think I’d need it, but better safe than sorry.
The inside of the bar was dimly lit by neon beer signs. A handful of fans spun on the low ceiling, unsuccessfully attempting to dispel the stank of some thirty bodies drinking heavily in a small space. I paused for a moment just inside the door to get my bearings and immediately spotted Billy’s two companions jawing with the bartender. Billy himself was gone. There weren’t any other exits aside from a single door leading off the bar and into the back room.
He went into the back, Maggie told me.
So I gathered.
No need for sarcasm; I was just making sure.
I eyed that door as I slid up to the bar and grinned at the bartender, setting my wallet down in front of me.
“What can I get ya?” the bartender asked.
“Something local. I’m looking for Billy Hadley.”
The bartender snorted. “What are you, an undercover cop or something? Never seen a cop dressed like that.”
“Not in the slightest.” I opened my wallet and pulled out a business card. It was white with black lettering that said Valkyrie Collections: We Deal with Mortals So You Don’t Have To. My name and cell phone number were on the back. “Do me a favor and give him this. Tell him his debt is past due, and it would be a good idea if he talked to me tonight.”
The bartender didn’t look at the card. “Billy doesn’t owe anyone.”
“That you know of.”
“He’s not here.”
I stretched. Not a lot – just enough physical theater so that the bartender got the idea that I was much larger than him. I’ve got troll somewhere back in my foggy, northern European ancestry. It’s diluted enough that I get a few good perks without being as dumb as a brick or turning to stone in sunlight. I’m six foot four with broad shoulders, short blond hair, a strawberry beard, and a bunch of tattoos. I look like I hit the gym every day, though I definitely do not. I like to think I have a Tom Hardy thing going on. Maggie says I look more like a techno Viking. In short, my clients like the fact that I look like a guy you shouldn’t mess with.
“I watched him walk in three minutes ago,” I yawned. “Go give him my card.”
The bartender tried to stare me down for a few long seconds. I responded with the same look I give to salesmen who try to get me to buy their shit before I’ve had my fifth cup of coffee in the morning. He finally broke off his stare, took my card, and headed into the back room.
I leaned across the bar and snagged an unopened bottle of some import I’d never heard of.
God, I haven’t had a beer in forever, Maggie said.
I thought you could conjure just about anything you want inside that little world of yours. Beer was a new complaint. She usually moaned about not being able to get laid or get a massage. I was pretty good at sympathizing, considering that I was a slave to my boss – she literally owned me. Maggie and I were both trapped in places we didn’t want to be.
I can, but it’s not the same.
There isn’t any way I can just, like, hand you one, is there?