dochermes | Entries tagged with doc valentine

"Urban Foraging"

10/5/2016

I.

The most conspicuous man imaginable found a useful receipt in a shopping cart. This close to 9 PM, the upstate New York parking lot was emptying out. Doc Valentine held the scrap of paper up to the light and chuckled. A round beachball of a man, his thinning blond-white hair and bulbous red nose would have been enough to identify him. His ghastly sense of style was much more significant. Kelly-green trousers and jacket, a red shirt with a wide yellow tie and a battered straw hat at a precarious angle combined to make sure no one could overlook him. The thin black cheroot glowed on its end as he inhaled.

"How auspicious," he muttered and pushed the cart toward the entrance of the LUCKY SHOT store. With sublime confidence, he rolled toward the electronics section and located a TV that exactly matched the receipt. It was a Toshiba UHD with a 55" screen and sold for two hundred and fifty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. He expected to get at least one hundred and twenty in cash from Spanish Eddie for it. After wrestling the box into the cart, he headed toward the exit and flashed the receipt at a disinterested blue-shirted worker who didn't even ask to see it. Doc Valentine had expected that. With fifteen minutes before closing, most of the minimum wage serfs were tired and preoccupied with the thought of going home. No alarm sounded as he passed between the monitor towers.

Doc Valentine wedged the TV into the trunk of his creaky white Hyundai Sonata, jamming the four bags of clothing to one side. What the devil was taking Isadora and Daisy so long? he wondered. Those two vixens would be his downfall yet. The old reprobate lit a wooden match with his thumbnail and inhaled on another black cigar. He still didn't trust the girls to be conscientous. True, they had no scruples but they were also impatient and took too many chances. Maybe he would have to discard them soon. Georgia was lovely this time of year....

With an excited chatter, the girls trotted toward him, each holding two large bags bursting with merchandise. Isadora was the taller one, a black-haired young woman with bangs and a wide friendly smile. Four inches shorter, with frizzy dark red hair and sharp green eyes, Daisy was saying, "We should be wearing pirate costumes."

"We really should," Isadora agreed.

"Confound you two urchins," drawled their mentor. "I was beginning to fear you had gone to see a feature film, you took so long."

"A job worth doing is worth doing right," Daisy said.

"It really is," added Isadora, arranging their loot in their trunk. "This one old hag was giving me the dirtiest look."

"She was suspicious of you as soon as you walked in," said Daisy.

"She really was," agreed Isadora. The brunette got the trunk closed with some difficulty and slapped her hands together as if dusting them. "So many tags! What a nuisance."

"That heavy duty neodymium magnet works great, though. It pulls them off like magic."

"It really does." Isadora gave Doc Valentine a sweet smile. "That's your third TV in three days, papi."

"No rest for the weary," Doc replied. "We must hasten away." The old scoundrel took a final drag on his cigar and swung around to open his car door, then screamed out loud as he saw the man in black standing next to him.

( the rest of the story )

"Game Recognizes Game"

11/13/1977

I.

"Ah, the English rose in early bloom," whined a nasal voice from right behind her.
Utterly surprised, Katherine Wheatley gave a start and whirled around. Was her telepathy failing her? How had this unimposing old man gotten up close enough to touch her without her detecting his mind? And why even now was she not picking up any thoughts at all from him? It was as alarming to her as suddenly going deaf would have been.

The man's apparent age and waistline were both about sixty, but at least he was reasonably well dressed in a lightweight white summer suit with a polka-dot bow tie that had been loosely knotted. He lifted an old-fashioned straw hat off thinning whitish blond hair and leered at her in a remarkably unsavory manner. Dominating his face was a bulbous nose as round and red as a tomato. "Forgive me if I startled you, my little crocus, but I seldom spy such a fair flower from the fair islands."

Even more perplexed, Katherine could not stop from asking, "How do you know I'm English? I didn't say anything."

"It is written on your piquant little face, sweetheart. Those cornflower blue eyes like gems catching the light, long straight hair as ebon as the raven wings of night, lips that curl up at the corners as if waiting for a chance to smile..."

"Oh, fuss and bother," she interrupted. Katherine was reassured that she was still picking up stray thoughts from the all the people going up and down the sidewalk outside Bryant Park, right behind the Public Library. Nothing was wrong with her gift, her telepathy was still functional but she could not pick up anything from this strange old man at all. This had never happened to her before. She was wearing a pleated skirt with her light maroon windbreaker and it wasn't reassuring how he was studying her slender legs with an interest not entirely avuncular. "Can I help you somehow or are you only remembering what it was like to flirt with teenage girls?"

"Zooks, you wound me to my very pith," he responded, twirling his hat and tossing it up behind him to catch it with his other hand. "I do believe I am the gentleman you are waiting here to meet. My name is Josiah Vandersanden. Mr Kenneth Dred has expressed interest in purchasing a rare item in my possession." Saying that, he held up a thin cylinder two feet long that had been neatly wrapped in brown paper.

Katherine raised one eyebrow, still worried about not being able to get a glimpse into this man's mind. Since early adolescence when her gift had first manifested, she had never had her telepathy fail her before. "Ah. Sorry to be so curt. My partner should be arriving directly, Mr Vandersanden, I was supposed to meet you here in case Jeremy was delayed..."

The old reprobate's response was cut short as they both spotted a thin young man in black striding across 42nd Street as if all the moving cars had paused for him. Jeremy Bane walked faster than most people could run. When he picked up speed as now, his movements seemed slightly unreal in their quickness. He was up on the sidewalk next to them before his arrival could quite register.

Barely twenty-one but already well-known in the Midnight War, the young Dire Wolf was wearing his trademark outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket which made him seem even more gaunt than he was. A narrow feral face and pale grey eyes under heavy black brows gave him a striking appearance. "Katherine. I got here as soon as I could. You must be the Vandersanden that we were supposed to meet?"

"Hullo, Jeremy. Yes. This is Jeremy Bane, he also works for Mr Dred and he is the one authorized to make the payment."

Vandersanden's extended palm was met with an unfriendly glare. "Let's see this blasting wand first, okay?"

"Of course, of course," the old man immediately replied. "Yet perhaps this trinket is best not glimpsed by the unwashed hordes of New Yorkers. Shall we find a table to seat ourselves?"

Along that wall of the park, two rows of booths faced each other across a paved promenade. Everything from tourist-oriented T-shirts and posters, scented candles and jewelry were available but the booths mostly hawked a wide variety of food. On this chilly dank November day, the area was not as packed as it normally was. The three of them found an unclaimed wrought iron table and dropped down into chairs designed to be uncomfortable so that people would not loiter but make way for more paying customers.

Bane was visibly reluctant to sit down. Katherine was used to the way he always tried to have a solid wall at his back, but in this case the best he could manage was to have to have the side of a booth behind him. She seated herself facing him so that she could keep an eye on anyone approaching from that direction and gave him a reassuring nod.

Watching Vandersanden place his bundle on the table, the Dire Wolf said nothing until the wrapping paper had been torn away. Revealed was a cylinder of dark coppery metal, shorter and thinner than a human forearm, with esoteric symbols etched into the surface. Capping one end was a faceted green gem.

"Crafted by those abominable Darthim on the island of Maroch itself," drawled Vandersanden. "In the hands of one who can wrest control of its magick, this wand can blow a hole through a brick wall you can poke your arm through. To be quite honest, it's rather like walking around with an unexploded bomb to carry this vile device."

Running his fingers along the rod, Bane made a satisfied sound. "Warm to the touch. What would you say the temperature is today, Katherine?"

"Forty at best, Fahrenheit that is," she said. "I do wish I had chosen a heavier jacket."

"And this talisman feels to be at body temperature. That's a sign it's genuine. All right. Mr Dred has authorized me to pay you this. Fifteen thousand dollars."

Accepting the thick business envelope, Vandersander riffled through the bills critically. "Crisp and fresh as autumn leaves underfoot. Well, young fellow, I believe we are both better off after this exchange."

"I can write a receipt if you want," Bane said, already tightening the wrapping paper up around the metal cylinder again.

"Sir! A gentleman's word is ironclad enough. A firm clasp of honest hands should suffice." Hauling himself up to his feet, Vandersanden extended his right hand, which Bane obligingly shook. Then, tipping his hat at Katherine, he waddled briskly away in the sparse crowd.

"There's a booth on the corner," Bane said. "We'll phone Mr Dred and report. But as long as we're here, we might as well grab some food."

Katherine gave a pleasant chuckle at his enthusiasm. "I swear, you have the metabolism of a hummingbird, Jeremy. If I ate as much each day as you, I believe I would weigh three hundred pounds, but certainly, I am a bit peckish. Bring me a smaller serving of whatever you are having."

"There's cheeseburgers on a grill right opposite us," Bane said as he rose. "Three for me, one for you. Keep an eye on this wand, though."

"Of course." Left for a second by herself, Katherine leaned forward curiously to stare at the end of the Darthan talisman protruding from the rewrapped package. That was curious. She picked it up, holding it closer and suddenly twisted the end counter-clockwise.

Holding a cardboard tray with their burgers, Jeremy Bane froze in mid-step. "What the hell?"

"Oh my goodness, it's a fake. Look at this. This is why it's warm!" The telepath held out her open hand and caught two D-sized batteries falling from inside the tube. "It's got wires inside that heat up."

Visibly shaken for the first time since she had met him half a year earlier, the Dire Wolf fell onto his chair. "He suckered me. And I fell for it."

Their dazed state only lasted for a second longer, because a heavyset man wearing a full-length winter coat approached them. He was holding a canvas bag the same general size at the phony talisman. "Jeremy Bane, I take it?" he asked cheerfully. "Vandersanden here, Josiah Vandersanden. I'm here to do business."

( the rest of the story )

"All Four of the Sergeants-Majors

9/11/1984

I.

Lip-reading was one of many skills that Jeremy Bane had paid several experts to teach him when he had first started his Midnight War career. He still took refresher lessons two or three times a year. Like pickpocketing or voice mimicry, lip-reading expertise faded with disuse. Sitting in the shadows under an awning of the cafe, thirty feet away from the two men at a table in the sun, the Dire Wolf was able to follow most of what Doc Valentine was saying.

It helped that the old reprobate was so melodramatic. Valentine drawled and put so much emphasis into every word that his speech was easy to read. Bane got the gist that the grifter was hard selling his pheromone spray, which he absolutely guaranteed would stir lust in any woman but particularly in those under twenty-five. From what the Dire Wolf deciphered, Doc Valentine claimed that this formula had been created as a therapy drug for trauma victims but had been kept secret because of its potential for abuse. A small amount had been smuggled out of an FDA lab and gotten into Valentine's hands.

Certain that he had not been spotted, Bane still sipped his iced tea slowly and finished his lasagna with deliberate movements so as to not draw any possible attention to himself. Still a few years under thirty, tall and gaunt in his all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, the Dire Wolf was a striking enough figure that he was too easily noticed in daytime. From what he could see of Valentine's intended victim, this was a middle-aged man with a bald spot becoming noticeable at the crown. Overweight, soft around the middle, estimated height only five foot eight or so. Well-dressed in a tailored charcoal-grey suit and polished dress shoes. A Rolex showed on the man's left wrist.

Doc Valentine in contrast was so flamboyant that he drew startled stares from passers-by. Short and pear-shaped with a waist at least sixty inches around, the old rogue was made conspicuous by a bulbous dark nose with a number of broken blood vessels in its tip, thinning blond-white hair and a habit of speaking from the corner of his mouth. But it was the irrational color clash of his outfit that people noticed. With his dark green trousers and jacket stretched over a vivid crimson shirt and loosely knotted yellow tie, Valentine also sported a straw hat tilted back at what was supposed to be a rakish angle and he wore violet-hued wrist-length gloves even on a hot sullen September afternoon. The final jarring touch was a blazing hot pink flower dangling forlornly from his left lapel.

Bane admittedly had little fashion sense but even he was aghast at that outfit. He was already getting restless after only a few minutes sitting at the cafe. The metabolism which gave him his enhanced speed and reflexes also made him impatient at the best of times. After spotting the easily recognized Valentine from a block away, he had dropped down in the shade and ordered when the waiter came over. But he was soon wondering if he should move on to more urgent matters.

True, Doc Valentine had been lurking on the outskirts of the Midnight War for many years. Right now, though, he seemed to be pulling nothing more insidious than one of his typical con games. The Dire Wolf was normally concerned with more dangerous threats to the public. He should be getting back to his office. He might be missing a case that involved real menace. Samhain had been rumored to be back in the Northeast again and Bane really wanted another shot at him.

Still watching, he saw Doc Valentine raise one emphatic forefinger, extract a brown glass vial from his inner jacket pocket and let one tiny drop spill onto the victim's palm. The grifter smirked and replaced the vial with infinite glee. Oh brother, thought Bane to himself, maybe he should simply march over there and expose the dirty old fraud before any money changed hands.

Then a woman in a slinky red dress stood up from a table near the two men. She was tall and slender, with gorgeous wavy black hair reaching well past her shoulder blades. Bane recognized her as soon as she moved, of course. There was no jewel thief or international mystery woman more beautiful than Rook.

Not overdoing it, seeming quite natural, she strolled over to say hello to Doc Valentine and his target. The man said something and she laughed in a warm inviting way that Bane heard quite clearly from where he sat shaking his head. Rook touched the man lightly on the shoulder, pivoted and walked away with just enough hip emphasis to be believable.

The Dire Wolf left more than enough money under his plate and rose to swing around behind the cafe, speeding up to a trot as he circled the block to intercept her. His interest in the con had been sharpened immensely by seeing that little pantomime. Doc Valentine by himself was trouble enough, but if the game was big enough that Rook found it worthwhile, he wanted to learn more.

( the rest of the story )

"What Do You Mean, You Know What Cards You Dealt Me?!"

12/11/1880

I.

He had been watching the adjoining poker games first with amusement and then with increasing uneasiness. Trouble was brewing like a storm cloud getting darker.

Johnny Packard had been growing sanguine with a square meal tucked under his belt. He sopped up the last of the ham gravy with a crust of bread to finish it. Most of his meals were miserable affairs out on the plains. Meat was rabbits or prairie hens that he shot or trout he caught from a stream, with some dried beans boiled in water or plain hard biscuits and near-coffee.

I could get used to this genuine cooking from a kitchen, done by a woman who knows her art, he thought. Only twenty, Johnny at first seemed a harmless runt. Not more than five feet four and barely one hundred and forty pounds at best, he was a slimy wiry young man. The thatch of dark red hair hung down over a sullen bony face with green eyes that never stopped moving.

Physically, there was nothing about him that seemed daunting at first. Not even the twin .45 Peacemakers in matched holsters at his hips were anything unusual in this region. Despite the railroad coming through twenty miles south, the town of White Blaze, Montana was still raw and mostly lawless. On a bitter December night like this, with the wind screaming like a banshee, being warm and dry was a great comfort.

The real menace in that saloon lay in the hatband of the black Stetson hanging by its cord down Johnny's back. Tucked beneath that beaded band was a strange coin of red metal marked with esoteric symbols which modern Humans did not know. Few had ever learned the secret of the Brimstone Kid and lived.

Sitting at his table in the back corner of the HORN OF PLENTY saloon, Johnny pushed his plate aside, settled back and sipped his whiskey. There were a dozen men drinking at the bar, trading jokes with the cackling girls who worked the rooms upstairs or grumbling complaints about their jobs. Nothing alarming there. He had been observing the card games going on while the piano player worked a medley of Stephen Foster songs to death. One of the games seemed harmless enough, two old miner-types muttering as they studied their grimy cards while a white-bearded pal sat and kibitzed. They were playing for pennies a point and had long since lost score.

No, it was the other two tables, seperated by twenty feet, that worried him.
Each game had three locals playing, ranchhands in rough well-worn clothing or townsfolk slightly better dressed but still simple working men. At each table sat a stranger, dominating the games.

At the game going on earest to Johnny sat a tall, quite handsome man with a strong jawline and crisp curly black hair. He was wearing a long frock coat and a frilled white shirt with a string tie. The effect waa impressive but not overdone, he was not so flashy as to cause immmediate suspicion. He was clean-shaven and kept a studious expression at all times. With a slight sigh, he placed his cards face down and waited for the other players.

"I'm out," said one cowhand. "This is gettin' too big a bite for me to chaw."

"Me, too. I'd have trouble playing high card wins! What about you, Hank?"

The final man at the table took a moment to chew on a soggy cigar butt that had gone out long ago. "I do believe we should show what we hold, sir." He spread his cards out on the table next to the loose stack of bills and silver dollars. "Three of a kind. Six of diamonds, clubs and spades. Mr Wander?"

The well-dressed man slowly laid down his hand where everyone could see it. "Only a flush. Five diamonds but not in any sequence. Still, I reckon it comes out on top."

Two of the men made disgusted noises and shoved their chairs back as they rose. The final player spoke with a quiet anger, "It 'pears to me you have enjoyed remarkable luck this evening, sir."

The man known as Wander started raking in his winnnings. "Luck always plays a part, that goes without saying. Still, if I may give some observations. When you receive a card you like, you hold your cards closer to you. When you are holding a disappointing hand, you let your cards droop until they can nearly be seen. This is a common beginner's tell."

"Is that so?" growled the man, sitting up straighter.

"I'm afraid it is." Wander shoved the coins and paper money into his coat pockets and picked up his derby hat from the empty chair next to him. "It's well said that a real player should never smarten up a chump, if you pardon the expression, but my advice would be to watch that habit the next time you engage in this game."

From where he had been sitting, Johnny Packard had clearly heard the whole exchange. He watched the ranchhand remain seated, not giving any sign of protest. Johnny relaxed slightly. He had been half expecting trouble.

Then he heard the outraged bellow from the other table, "Whaddaya MEAN, you know what you dealt me?! What the hell kinda thing is that to say?"

"A mere slip of the tongue, I assure you," replied a nasal voice with an accent from way back East. "I meant to say, I know what smelt here. My unfortunate lunch of chicken salad with a dab too much relish in the mayonnaise has resurfaced from the nether regions."

"That's not what I heard!" roared the voice. "Yuh goddamn snake, raise yore arms, I'm a-gonna search you and if I find some extra cards, you will not have time to beg! This is Oxheart Wooley you are dealing with."

( the rest of the story )

"The Phantom of Vaudeville"

3/2-3/3/1943

I.

Crossing 48th Street with a chill wind trying to get up her skirt, Kelly O'Connor was grateful she was wearing her Green Devil costume under her dress. Nylons were getting so difficult to find that she went without stockings that day and prayed no one noticed. This early in March, every little bit helped. At five-thirty, the crowds were thick but she wove and darted through them with the ease of long practice. At twenty-three, tall and slender with trim legs, the young reporter was at her best in the pale lilac dress matched with a plain cloche hat perched far back on her brick-red hair. Her likeable good looks had been a mixed blessing in her journalism career so far but in day to day life, they helped out immensely.

Over by Eighth Avenue, she found the front door of the old Mialgo Theatre, windows boarded up and marquee long blank. Once a center of the city's vaudeville activity, it had been left to droop with disrepair. Standing in front of the double doors with their frosted glass panes were two men she had only met once before.

Little Willie, William O. Gillis, was a short, slightly built colored man with processed hair and a friendly, cheerful face. He would be a few inches shorter than Kelly's own five feet seven, but he was dapper to an extreme in a tailored dark blue suit with charcoal pinstripes, a pearl-grey fedora and an ebony walking stick. As he saw the attractive redhead hurrying his way, Little Willie's face split in a grin that had graced hundreds of newspaper ads in his heyday.

It was the man next to Little Willie that made Kelly skid to a halt in her heels. Doc Valentine.

The beachball-shaped torso with the sixty-inch waist was wrapped in a bilious purple suit with canary-yellow shirt, barely-buttoned matching vest and a floppy loosely-knotted orange bow tie. That bulbous nose with blood vessels becoming more prominent every day, the thinning blond hair and leering half-closed eyes all made an unforgettable impression. Kelly had listened to Doc Valentine on the radio, she had sat through his film BOTH WAYS GO NOWHERE and she had never found him amusing in the least.

"Ah, behold, a shamrock on legs," Valentine drawled. "Fairer thistle the unhappy Isle ne'er spawned."

Kelly could not remember the last time she blushed. Being a crime reporter in the big city had gotten her oblivious to stares from men or from women. But the way Doc Valentine regarded her made her feel as if her clothing had fallen completely off and lay in a heap at her ankles.

"Hello, Willie," she managed to croak in an unfamiliar voice. "I didn't know you were acquainted with... this fellow."

"Mr Gillis and I date back to the halcyon days of Vaudeville," replied Doc Valentine. "When the Mighty Ajax bent horseshoes in his hands, when Lilly Wren sang her fair heart out, when minstrels shows ruled the land and our hearts were young and gay..."

"That was ages ago," Kelly interrupted. "My editor at THE NEW YORK MESSENGER wants fresh material. What's the score today?"

Little Willie produced an oversized key from his waistpocket and flourished it. "Ah, dear girl, Vaudeville has declined but it has not yet breathed its last. Dr Valentine has agreed to help fund me in my effort to refurbish this palace."

The redhead folded both arms across her modest chest, the leather handbag swinging behind her on its gold chain. "Pull the other leg. You birds think Vaudeville is coming back? Have you seen Technicolor? Have you seen those new television cabinets the ritzy crowd are installing?"

"The barbed tongue of youth," muttered Doc Valentine, placing a white-gloved paw to his chest. "Like the sting of the enraged hornet to my heart are your doubts."

"Get this and get it straight," she snapped, jabbing a slim index finger at his doughy face. "Willie is a good man. I don't intend to see him lose his last pair of socks on some harebrained scheme from the most notorious conman of the metropolitan area. And by that I mean you!"

"You look healthier, my little cupcake, you've eaten well since landing a job with the Fourth Estate..."

"I have not put on a pound!" Kelly barked, then caught herself. Doc Valentine had this effect on everyone as far as she could tell.

"Sugar, hear me out." Little Willie put a hand on Kelly's elbow, which she didn't mind because she could tell he was a gentleman. She subsided much like a cat which had arched its back and begun sputtering before a fight.

"This theatre is spacious," Willie continued as he steered the redhead away from Valentine. "We think it can offer different shows simultaneously, perhaps with different entrances. A large beaded screen showing the latest Hollywood epic. A stage for baggy-pants joke tellers and fan dancers. Rooms toward the rear for a dance floor and a swing band. All these venues humming and buzzing at the same time, but separated by soundproofed walls and offered at reasonable ticket prices."

Kelly raised one elegant eyebrow. Her eyes were a bright lambent green that caught the afternoon light with a flash. "You may be on to something there, my friend. So the great unwashed masses arrive at your emporium and select what diversion suits their mood?"

"That's our hope," Little Willie said. "The old soft-shoe is not beyond me yet, perhaps I will open a few shows. Come on in, it may be dusty." He turned the key which met some resistance and the door creaked outward.

Meager light came in through gaps in the two by fours over the tall windows and by the open door. The dim lobby was cluttered with debris, old props and stacks of papers held together by twine, paper coffee cups that had long since dried. A large travel trunk covered with city stickers leaned up against a wall. Twin ticket booths were shuttered. Over all, a musty odor hung heavy, and spiderwebs were plentiful.

"Scrubbing with apple cider vinegar and hot water will restore the pristine patina to this palace..." began Doc Valentine. He stopped at the foot of a marble staircase which led up a walkway encircling the area. "Reminds me of my days at the horrid Grand Guignol in the City of Lights..."

Disregarding him, Kelly O'Connor swung open a glass panel which held a coiled firehose and an axe with a spike on the back of its head. A manila tag INSPECTED 1/9/1922 hung from the hose. "Gracious. Has anyone even been in here since the days of Coolidge?" she asked.

"Not that I---" Little Willie's sentence ended abruptly as a thick hemp noose dropped around his neck and he was hauled straight up ten feet into the air. At the same time, a two hundred pound ballast bag thumped against the floor where he had been standing.

As Willie gagged and choked, legs kicking wildly, it was Kelly who reacted instantly. She tugged the fire axe loose of its clamps, wheeled around and sliced neatly through the rope extending up from the sandbag. Willie fell directly on top of the dumfounded Doc Valentine, whose soft belly did not provide a comfortable a landing spot as one might expect. "Thunderation!" bellowed the old reprobate.

Surprising herself, Kelly was neither shaken nor confused by the sudden flurry of action. Over a year as the Green Devil had honed the way she reacted to the unexpected. She dropped the fire axe to one side and bent over the faintly struggling Little Willie.

"Ack. Arrgh," complained the old dancer. "Gack."

"Take it easy. It's a miracle your neck's not broken." Kelly noticed that even in his distress the man's eyes were fixed at something behind her. So were the watery blue eyes of Doc Valentine. She froze into position and swiveled her head to see what both men could be staring at.

On a catwalk thirty feet above them, a bizarre figure loomed up. Well over six feet high but gaunt as a starvation victim, wrapped in a black winding robe, the apparition raised an arm to reveal a skeletal hand pointing down accusingly. Kelly could clearly see it was not a normal hand wearing a glove, but made of bones with openings between them.

"Begone! You dare laugh where men died screaming!" called down a hollow sepulchral voice. "The Phantom warns only once!" Then the grisly sight melted from view as if instantly collapsing.

( the rest of the story )

"Five of the Ugliest Crooks You Ever Saw"

4/5/2012

I.

Sheng had a strong suspicion right away that Peter Galliano was completely insane. When they first met, the infamous criminal turned his head and said to his own left shoulder, "What do you think of this Argent guy?" Galliano then continued in a higher-pitched voice, "I don't trust him, Pete, I think he's trouble." Nodding, the infamous mastermind said in his normal voice, "Yeah. I think you're right, Pete."

Behind Sheng, ancient Uncle Pao muttered in Cantonese, >"Choose your words carefully, nephew. This one is even crazier than that Punster fool."<

"Ah... yes. Won't you have a seat and tell me what brings you here?" Sheng offered in the most casual voice he could muster. His own cluttered desk sat in front of a fan-shaped window that looked down on lower Canal Street, but a smaller desk had been set up for Uncle Pao to one side and slightly behind where clients sat. This was actually a useful arrangement. The old man could distract clients at appropriate times with a comment that made them turn their heads toward him, giving Sheng a moment to think or hide something or to go for a weapon. It also allowed Uncle Pao to make disrespectful faces at whatever the clients said, a pastime he enjoyed very much.

Dropping down into his swivel chair, Sheng Mo-Yuan had a feeling this was going to be a long night. He kept the unusual hours of Midnight to eight AM because of the nature of the cases he handled. He unbuttoned his light brown suit jacket as he sat and decided to loosen the knot on his tan necktie and undo the top button on his yellow shirt. For some reason, he wanted to hear what Peter Galliano had to say.

Even side from his disquieting habit of thinking his left shoulder was another person, the crime boss was not a charming presence. About forty, of average height and build, Galliano had thinnning brown hair swept straight back off a high forehead and wire-rimmed glasses on a nose that resembled a badly peeled potato. He was well dressed, but in a lower management office-drone sort of way.

Glancing toward the brute who stood filling the doorway, Uncle Pao added in Cantonese, >"I believe that man's face was pushed in with a rock and pulled back out again with pliers."< It was true that the bodyguard was exceptionally ugly but this unkind remark struck Sheng as funny. He fought down a snort and tried to disguise it as clearing his throat.

Galliano cocked his head toward his left shoulder, said, "What's that, Pete? Uh-huh." Then he jerked a thumb toward the scrawny old white-haired man seated to his side. "We don't think your friend should speak in Chinese. We don't know what he's saying. It's not polite."

"I'm sorry," Sheng said. "My uncle has not been in this country long. Now, Mr Galliano, what is that Argent Investigations can help you with?"

"May I speak freely? Without incriminating myself? Well, I am interested in a class of criminals unrelated to the racketeers and mobsters who handle gambling, drugs, human trafficking, that sort of thing. Those represent 'organized crime,' the underbelly of society. Their existence is a shame but then, their activities answer certain needs that regular citizens want filled... Excuse me." He conferred with his left shoulder in a whisper. The remarks from his shoulder came in that high-pitched squeak.

Looking past Galliano, Sheng saw Uncle Pao giving an apalled facial expression. The old man shook his head from side to side and rolled his eyes up in his head while mouthing the words 'No! No! No!'. To be honest, this was not an extreme reaction for Pao, who acted the same way when Sheng suggested they try some pizza from the all-night place down the street.

"Sorry," Galliano went on. "My partner suggests I get on with it. I'm concerned with a group of maybe a dozen independent masterminds. They plan and act on their own. Most of them hire a few strong-arm specialists to act as henchmen, some have a regular squad of shall we say thugs to handle the physical side of their heists and swindles. I'm sure you have heard of some of them. The Pelican. Casey Strangle. Pumpkin-face. Don Coyote. The Punster..."

Seeing that his guest was waiting for a reaction, Sheng hastened to say, "Of course. I am very interested. Please go on."

"Several of them meet at ten of o'clock on the first Tuesday of each month," Galliano said. "Speaking for our team of Pete and Repeat, we would like to find out what dubious activities they are up to then. I'm afraid that if your presence is detected, you would be murdered immediately."

"And considering that it's Monday night now... or actually Tuesday morning, since it's after twelve," Sheng added, "I'm not going to have much time to think this over."

( the rest of the story )

"Doc Valentine and His Pal Bogus"

4/6/2003

I.

Eleven o'clock on an early spring evening, and Jeremy Bane walked quickly up 11th Avenue near 109th Street. It wasn't the best neighborhood. Two punks in a doorway fingered the knives in their coat pockets and wondered if this stranger had enough money on him to make it worth the effort. But something about him made them draw back. They could not find an exact reason. The way he moved, the confidence, the alertness in those grey eyes were all signals he would not be an easy victim. As he drew near, they actually shrank back a little. Bane was not huge nor muscular, just six feet tall and maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. He was not covered with tattoos that meant he had killed people, and he did not have visible scars. He did not need any of these to be intimidating.

The Dire Wolf turned left and went another block over. This was the last address he had for Doc Valentine. It was a weathered white stone building only four stories high, with two front doors and a sign ROOMS AVAILABLE. Between the two doors was a ledge bearing a row of pathetically dry and dying plants. One door was ajar and Bane pushed it inward to look at the row of pushbuttons with names. Nothing seemed likely. He tried the other door and found it was locked. Breaking and entry number nine hundred, he thought sadly. Without seeming to use much effort, he drew back his elbow and slammed the heel of his hand just above the doorknob. Metal snapped and the door swung inward. He checked the row of names and spotted "Obadiah Q. Sneed" on the third floor.

That had to be Doc Valentine, he thought sourly, him and his ridiculous aliases. You'd think a con man would use more plausible names. Bane trotted easily up the stairs and rapped sharply on the designated door. A nasal voice called out, "He's not here."

The Dire Wolf rarely evidenced a sense of humor. "I've got the money I owe you," he called.

At once, the door was flung inward and a round, blotched face thrust out. The bulbous nose had broken blood vessels and the blonde hair was thin. "You restore my faith in-- Great Caesar's Ghost!" Valentine tried to jump back and slam the door but Bane was already pushing him backwards.

"We need to talk." Bane closed the door behind him. The rented rooms were threadbare and dismal, with cracked plaster on the walls and dubious stains on the ancient couch. On a low coffee table was a nearly empty bottle of gin, a tumbler and five shot glasses.

He had to ask. "Why do you need all those shot glasses?"

"In case of guests," came the drawling answer. "Jeremy, you are like a son to me."

"No, I'm not. Anyone else here?"

"You are the first human being to step through that door in ages." Doc Valentine plopped unceremoniously down and finished off the gin as if he were afraid Bane was going to ask for some, then daintly wiped his lips with a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He was wearing an old-fashioned single-breasted suit with a carnation in the label. "Where's that money you owed me?"

"I don't owe you money. I just said that so you'd let me in. Listen, Doc. I just came from the police station on 20th Street."

"So glad they released you, my boy."

"I wasn't a suspect!" Bane snapped. He hated dealing with this old degenerate. "Lt Montez asked me to watch some video of a robbery. A man walks into a liquor store near Times Square. Short, dumpy guy with hairy arms and a gold watch on the right wrist. Looks Italian, in his forties. He snatches up a quart of gin in each hand, turns and walks right out the door. The owner of the liquor store squawks and goes after him. Here's where things get weird. The security camera shows the robber step out through the door and turn right. That man is not seen again. Through the front window of the store we see a tall thin man with with a beard walking to the right and he is holding both bottles of gin. The store owner has reached the door and he naturally turns right. No robber in sight. Standing on the sidewalk is a man who answers your description."

"Untenable blathering," said Doc Valentine. "I am certain there are many who resemble me in our fair city."

"Wearing a straw hat? With a sixty-inch waist and a walking stick? And that nose?"

"You hurt me, Jeremy. My nose was injured in the war."

"Montez is stuck for an explanation and I can't figure it out either. But then, he doesn't know you. You've pulled some cute swindles in your day, Doc. What's the story this time?"

"Ah, Jeremy. My conscience is as white as the snow on Christmas Eve. I am sure I have the receipt for that bottle of the life-giving liquid on the table, if that is what you are driving at. My doctor recommends it for palpitations."

To himself, Jeremy Bane began to count down from a hundred. Every time he crossed paths with Doc Valentine was a severe trial. Letting out a deep breath, he said, "What did you see in front of the liquor store?"

"Deny everything, don't leave tips if you're never going back there and always sit by the door, those are words I live by. I say, my boy, have you eaten? I could coddle an egg and make some pumpernickel toast if you like."

As Bane prayed for strength, he felt something funny about the chair he was sitting in. It seemed warm to the touch and a bit yielding for a plain straightback chair with no mat. He turned his head and looked back over his shoulder just as a living eye opened in the back of the chair.

It was the first time he had ever screamed in alarm that he could remember. The Dire wolf was up and on his feet in a tiny fraction of a second, spinning around with one of the silver-bladed daggers appearing in his hand from its forearm sheath. As he watched in horror, a second eye opened and the first slid over to make room. The chair stared at him for a second, then the eyes closed and left no trace behind.

Bane bent closer and peered suspiciouly. "Doc, what WAS that?"

"Did a flea bite you? Bought that chair at a flea market."

The chair seemed ordinary enough, even mundane with its varnish chipped away and a cigarette burn on the seat. "I know I'm not going to get any cooperation from you."

"Did I ever tell you about the curious customs of the Poodalompa people of Paraguay? They used to tie their unruly children to a chair much like that one and then soak them in tepid water-"

Valentine's unlikely reminiscences were cut short as Bane poked the chair with the dagger he still had, hard enough to try to chip off a splinter. In an instant, the object swelled up, expanded, became a manlike shape that shot out a hard square block on an extension like a thick tentacle. It caught Bane in the face with brutal force, snapping his head around and throwing him back off his feet.

"Time to vacate the premises," he heard Doc Valentine mutter. "Ah, the rent was due anyway."

( the rest of the story )