Glass and Shadow
Part three -- Hard Places

I hear someone far off command, "Rise and shine!"

My eyes pop open. The lighting in this place is lousy, but it looks like an abandoned warehouse. The floor's cement with a giant crack running through it. Moonlight shines though dirty skylights with cracks that look like spiderwebs. The walls are lost in the shadow and gloom. The air is smoky and there's a sickly sweet smell like something died. I look down. I'm naked to the waist and it looks like some kinky bastard tried a game of japanese rope bondage with some bad chit'lins while I was out. I hope to God those entrails came from a sickly cow or an oversized pig. I hear a hiss and then a buzzing sound and an overhead light flares up. I squint against the brightness. There's a fat man standing under the light. But calling him fat don't exactly do him justice. He's the fattest man I've ever seen outside of one of those trashy afternoon talkshows where they bust down trailer walls to free man mountains from their prisons. His calves look as thick as my waist. His palms look like canned hams without the cloves. He's got fingers as thick as kielbasa. His neck is hidden by a waterfall of chins that flow freely from wobbly jowls. But he's dressed sharp. He's got a white panama hat cocked just so's I can't see his eyes. He's wearing white linen trousers that are so starched I wonder if I could cut myself on their crease. He's wearing yards and yards of green silk in a shirt that must have been made special for him; the buttons on the shirt are mother-of-pearl. His liver-colored, rubbery lips slowly crawl up his face in what's supposed to be a smile, but there ain't no humor in that grin. He nods his head at me and begins to talk, and even though he's this lard-ass colossus, his voice is high, breathy and girly, "Mr. Hutchence! I can't tell you how absolutely delighted I am to finally, at last, make your acquaintance. I trust your rest was pleasant?"

My mouth's dry and it takes a bit to work up enough spit so I don't croak, "I love sleep spells. Wish I could get a witch doctor to prescribe 'em for me. Cut down on my booze expenses."

The fat man's chins quiver. I can't tell if I pissed him off or made him chuckle. He licks his lips and says, "Ah, the famous Hutchence wit. I imagine that it must have been great consolation to you in the long months of your unemployment. If memory serves, you have had difficulty finding clients since that unfortunate fiasco with the Shadow Boys."

He's trying to get my goat, and truth is he's almost got it. What the Shadow Boys did to Candace is enough to give the bravest man the shakes, and I ain't anywhere close to the bravest. But I'll be double-damned if I'm gonna let this oversized priss get to me that easy, so I hold his gaze and say, "Everything can end up going to shit except your sense of humor. Man ain't able to laugh, he ain't got nothing."

"Still, nothing funny about what happened to poor, sweet Candance McCree. She was so trusting. Pity for you both that she trusted the wrong person to protect her. I imagine you never did receive your full fee."

Wasn't ever the money that made me take on Candace as a client. She had that scared bird look that made you want to save her. I wasn't up to scratch and nearly ended up six feet under with her, but I tried my damnedest. Knowing this helps me to keep my mouth shut. The fat man sees that I'm still not worked up in a fine lather and continues, "Her mother found the body, you know. I hear the psychiatrists have all but given hope in the face of her persistant catatonia. Such hideous things happened to that poor child's lovely face. And yet, you seem to have emerged unscathed. And the Shadow Boys don't seem to have any interest in pursuing you. There are some that would find that suspicious..."

"You shut your filthy trap, tubbo," I bark when I should keep my damn fool mouth shut, "I didn't sell out Candace and only I know how much that cost. And I don't need to prove myself to a fuck like you."

"All your protestations notwithstanding, there is the fact that the Shadow Boys haven't appeared to make so much as a move towards you in the months following." I laugh, because there's nothing else to do but cry, "They got what they wanted. Why would they care about a washed-up loser like me?"

The fat man laughs as if this was the punchline to the world's best joke, he laughs so hard that his rolls ripple seismically and he says, "Finally you understand. For too long you've been poking your nose into things that are far beyond you. And until Candace, you've been a very, very lucky man. But there's only so many times you can pull the trigger in Russian Roulette before getting the sweet, sharp bang. However, it looks like your luck has held for one last stare into the barrel, because you have something I want, and as a reasonable man, I'm willing to bargain for it."

"I don't have shit you want. And if I did, I still wouldn't give it to you."

His piggy little eyes narrowed, "Mr. Hutchence, as much as it would pain me to be an ungracious host, you are coming perilously close to forcing me to be unpleasant."

"Unpleasant? I got beaten up, hexed and stuffed in a bag by the leather dyke triplets and now I'm wrapped in lukewarm guts in a cold warehouse listening to Humpty Dumpty's Saville Row evil twin go on about fuck-all. If you've been blowing sunshine and lollipops up my ass till now, I can't imagine what it'd be like when you started to get nasty."

He made some sort of gesture with one of his meaty hands and whispered something under his breath. Quicker than you can say "slimy" the entrails that had me tied up begin to writhe and move, crawling up as high as my neck and tightening as they go. It's one way to keep my mouth shut; when breathing starts becoming a luxury it's hard to wise off. I don't know how long I spent in a deadly hug from mutant sausage casings, but my lungs were burning and I'm wheezing like a six-pack-a-day smoker before fatty makes another gesture that freed me up some.

"A demonstration. I can do much worse, but I felt that a tone needed to be set. So, shall we discuss things like rational human beings?"

"Yeah... we'll talk," I gasp out before lapsing into a coughing fit. The fat man pulls out a manila folder from a briefcase. It's the dossier on the Laveau kid I'm supposed to kidnap. He says, "What I want is information. Information that you have."

"Can't read it?" I ask.

"You know very well that I can't."

"Seems like a big, powerful wiz like you shouldn't have no trouble breaking through somethin' cast by a washed-up loser like me."

His face turns red like cheap wine. He says, "If you insist on playing games --"

"Not so fast, lardo. You start playing boa constrictor again and I die and you lose out on finding my little secrets."

"Oh, I wasn't planning on killing you, just yet. But I imagine I have methods that will impell you to give me the information I want. Any information I want."

"You start in with torture and I make that folder burst into flames. All you got is cinders, and I'm pretty sure I didn't memorize nothing useful. Now, you want to talk? First things first, I don't much like being tied up, especially not by human haggis."

"You dare to make demands?"

"That's part of bargaining, ain't it? You want information, I'm willing to provide it. But there's a price, and I ain't doing business as a hostage."

The fat man waves his hands and the entrails fall to the floor limp. I step away from them and say, "Okay. That's better. So let's talk price. I got no vested interest in making sure my employer gets what he wants, 'cept he's paying me."

"Release your spell and I'll double his price," the fat man growls.

"I wasn't born yesterday. I release that spell, you get what you want and you kill me to keep any loose ends from flapping. That's not my kind of happy ending."

"I give you my word --"

"Your word ain't worth the air it pollutes," I interrupt,"I got no reason to trust you."

"If I wanted you dead, I could have killed you already," he says.

"Then you would've missed out on that information you want. You don't even know what it is. Just know you don't want your rival to have it. And I'm not worth much to you, but you figure you can squeeze me. Well, if you want the juice you gotta play by my terms. Keep the folder. I'll decrypt it for you, but I need assurances."

"I've already give you my word."

"I mean genuine assurances. Meet me tomorrow night with twenty-five Gs in crisp, unmarked bills and I'll remove the veil for you. But no tracking me until that time. I go scott-free until that time so's I can make sure you're not gonna cross me, and as soon as that money's in my hot little hand, I'll let you have exactly what you want."

Fatty paces a little and turns towards me. He throws a business card at my feet, "Meet me at this address tomorrow night at 1:00 am sharp. If you are late, you will die. If you attempt to double cross me, you will die. I will pay you no more than fifteen thousand dollars. If these terms are not acceptible to you, then I sincerely hope your life has been full up until this point."

I pick up the card. It's black with a pin-up girl in miniature. The address is a skating rink, "World of Wheels". It says they have Roller Derby thursdays. Tomorrow night is thursday. I nod my head, "Yeah, those terms'll do. Uh, I didn't catch your name."

"Nor will you. You should know better than that. However, if you ask for Clover, they will bring you to me."

"Clover, huh. Like the honey. Say, be a pal and show me where you put my shirt?"

Clover points a chubby finger towards a far wall and says, "You'll find your belongings by the door."

I walk over in that direction and find my stuff folded in a pile by one of those big, sliding delivery doors. I get dressed, open the door and head outside. A light rain is falling and the air feels fresh and crisp. There's gotta be a phonebooth nearby here. Wherever here is. I figure I'll call a cab, go home and take a nice, long shower. Then I'll take Dixie's advice and call Shalene. The shit just got too weird for me to handle alone.

part of the wordmongers' masque