Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two) (20 page)

I reluctantly stood, pulled on my own bag, followed by goggles and respirator, and then snatched up my guitar case. That was part of the cover story, too—I was keeping my head down by going around as a bona fide Song-Slinger, which was true even if not
exactly
the whole truth.

With bags and gear in hand, I pushed past Ferraro and led us down a narrow interior hallway running alongside the train rooms—especially tight considering my guitar—to a set of stairs that took us to the platform. Well, there wasn’t actually any platform, not like you might be thinking. The “platform” consisted of the dusty ground in front of the rusted tracks, a row of cheap wooden benches, and a single tall post with an old clock affixed to the front.

Hot air, dry and dusty, washed over me. “God, I hate this place. Even with this damn ventilator on I can still smell the reek. Shit and garbage …” I took another long pull of air. “Burnt garbage.”

Ferraro dropped down from the train, carefully brushing her hands along the front of her shirt.

“I hate the Hub,” I said, “but I hate the Hinterlands even more.”

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” Her voice was slightly muffled by the respirator. “We’ve got a job to do, so let’s get it over with, and then we can leave this place behind.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” We trudged into town, the buildings sprawled along the hard packed boulevard like drunk and disorderly bar goers: staggered, lopsided, leaning drunkenly every which way. A boardwalk ran in front of shops and homes on both sides—we took to one, mostly to avoid the traffic meandering up and down the street. Old rusted-out cars, a few horses, a malformed water buffalo, a host of Tri-skiffs—three wheel taxis in a riot of hues—and mopeds. Heaps and heaps of zippy little mopeds.

The Hog’s Head wasn’t far and was easy enough to find—right on the main boulevard with a giant, rotating, mechanical hog’s head held high in the air, protruding from the end of a thick metal pole.

“Alright Ferraro,” I said as we trotted up to the batwing bar doors—damn place was like the cover for a bad Meatloaf album—“we need to keep our heads down here. Don’t talk to anyone if you can help it. Don’t stare anyone down, pick fights, or generally do any of the things your alpha-female brain compels you to do. Kay?” I glanced back at her over my shoulder. She nodded.

I peeled off my ventilator and goggles—Ferraro followed my lead—and pushed my way into the bar interior. Nice digs, these. The wood floor was covered in straw, wet beer stains, and, in a couple of places, blood in varying colors. Round card tables dotted the room with a variety of players, most of them definitely not human, drinking from dirty mugs and talking too loudly. A large chandelier of bone, fashioned from antlers, deer skulls, and human bones interspersed throughout, hung over the whole lot of tables. Against the left wall, and near the back, a narrow set of stairs ascended to a second floor, which probably served as guest rooms or a brothel. Along the back of the room ran a long hardwood bar, complete with a horizontal mirror spanning the length of the wall.

This was the spot, this was where Fortuna—Lady Luck, my temporary boss—had told me to find her. But there wasn’t hide nor hair of her. Dammit. Why would I have expected it to be that easy? Idiot. Well, I couldn’t just stand around in the doorway until she showed—I was aiming for inconspicuous. So instead I sauntered up to the bar, trying to appear casual and unruffled. Ferraro clung to me like a shadow. She might’ve been tougher than old boot leather, but she knew when subterfuge was the best policy, so she kept her head down too.

The bartender wasn’t even close to human: gnarled old goat’s face with blunt teeth, curling horns, amber eyes, and giant, cancerous growths protruding from his face, neck, and arms. A halfie
and
a mutie … the Hinterlands were contaminated, so longtime residents often ended up like the barman. “What’ve we got here?” he said, his voice raspy. “You a real, legitimate Song-Slinger?” he asked me, eyeing the guitar on my back.

“Yessir,” I said, bobbing my head. “Name’s Bobby, Bobby Haskell.” Then I held out an arm and drew back my sleeve, revealing a tattoo in shifting gold and silver, just below the crook of my elbow on my forearm. An intricately wrought harp in gold, bordered by a ring of silver.

“Hot damn,” the barman whispered. “Union certified, huh?” The tattoo was fake. Ben had done it up right before smuggling Ferraro and me into the Hub. A Union-certified Song-Slinger was a great cover for me since I could play—not to mention that Song-Slingers were rarely hustled, even out in the Hinterlands. After all, everyone likes to listen to a good tune and out here in the Hinterlands, where advanced technology was often unreliable, entertainment could be hard to come by.

“Well …” He paused, scratching at his wispy goatee (Ha … goat-ee). “We already got us a Song-Slinger, of sorts.” He waved a deformed limb—part cloven hoof, part human hand—toward a balding, fat man in a bowler hat pounding away at an upright piano in the corner. The piano was a real beaut: an upright Emerson, 1880s, beautiful dark wood, carved front panel and fallboard, real ivory keys. Made my fingers itch to play it, bet the action was great.

“Ol’ Sappy there ain’t certified,” the barman said. “A queer-fish too, but he gets the job done.”

“It’s alright, partner,” I replied. “I’m just meeting someone here, then passing through.”

“Damn shame,” he said, “I could find you work here—ask around at the other saloons. There’s always call for a Union Slinger.”

“Thank’ye,” I said, nodding again. “But we’ll just take a couple of whiskeys and wait for our friend.”

Ferraro, nudged me hard in the ribs. “Your lawyer just walked in,” she whispered in my ear.

NINETEEN:

The Hog’s Head

I turned in time to see the batwing doors swing closed; Fortuna, Lady Luck, who had also briefly served as my legal counsel, stood just inside. Thin-faced with black-framed glasses, brown hair tied up behind her head, and wearing a charcoal suit—professional to her toes and completely out of place in these parts. She would’ve fit in nicely on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan or in any courtroom or board meeting. Here, however, a place where dusty western attire was the norm, she looked downright suspicious. Almost certain to draw unwanted attention and trouble along with it.

“What’s your lawyer doing here?” Ferraro asked, voice low and sorta threatening-ish. I got the feeling that Ferraro was more of a planner by nature—probably liked to know everything and have all the details before going in. Not really the way I did things. I’d kinda neglected to mention all of the nitty-gritty specifics. Specifics like, say, Lady Fortuna.

“Not my lawyer,” I whispered. “She’s our contact here, must’ve forgotten to mention the connection.”

Ferraro stared daggers at me, I could practically feel her eyes boring through my skull and into my brain—lady could mean mug with the best of ‘em.

“You can kill me later. For now, just smile, play along, and don’t make a scene.”

I walked toward Fortuna, who’d already claimed a small open table not far from the stairs. Ferraro growled under her breath behind me, but followed along without any overt threats.

“Mind if I sit?” I asked, pulling out one of the two free chairs without waiting for a response. Ferraro followed suit, turning her chair so she could keep one eye on the meeting and one eye on the room full of potential inhuman threats. “I’d say it’s good to see you,” I said, “but I’m trying to lie a little less these days.”

“It’s good to see you too, Lazarus—”

“Not Lazarus.” I grabbed her wrist, hard, though she didn’t seem to notice. “You’re mistaken. Name’s
Bobby Haskell
…” I said it real slow, making sure to emphasize every syllable. “I know you don’t seem to mind nearly killing me, but maybe a little discretion would be nice, eh?”

“As you say, Mr. Haskell.” She rolled her eyes as though exasperated with my silly human desire not to be murdered horribly. Old Powers like Fortuna, nigh immortal beings, just don’t seem to understand that dying is something we humans really care a great deal about.

“And Agent Ferraro.” She positively beamed. “I’m so glad to see you. I wasn’t certain whether you’d accompany
Bobby
.” She gave an obvious wink. “Freewill is so difficult to predict—but I’m glad you made it. Your presence in this matter increases Mr. Haskell’s overall chance of success by thirty-one percent. Great news, really great news. Additionally, his overall chance of survival bumps up by a noticeable twelve percent.”

“Wait, what?” I asked. “My chance of success increases by thirty-one percent, but my overall survival only increases twelve percent? For me, surviving
is
success.”

She nodded, as though there were absolutely no discrepancies with these figures. “Yes you are thirty-one percent more likely to recover the Grail and prevent a nightmarish future from unfolding. Whether or not you live past collecting the Grail is of secondary importance to me and my Patron, Lady Fate.” She said it as if she was reading off a memo sheet at an office meeting.

“I’m sorry,” said Ferraro, “I’m not tracking here. Start over.” It wasn’t a question. Good for her; usually people lose their minds—quite literally—when they stop being a plain ol’ Rube, and get clued into the supernatural. Ferraro hadn’t just adjusted, she’d even managed to keep her take-no-crap-from-anyone attitude. Even a woman like Fortuna, who was somewhere in the minor godling power range, wasn’t safe from Ferraro. Nice.

Lady Fortuna seemed unruffled. “Yes, yes, I suppose proper introductions are in order here. I’m Jessica Fortuna, Lady Luck—agent of Lady Fate, the Three-Faced Hag—and Bobby,” she nodded at me, “is temporarily acting as Lady Fate’s mortal agent, her
Hand
.”

“Wait,
the
Lady Luck?” Ferraro asked, even more perturbed than before. Yeah, maybe I should’ve mentioned Fortuna earlier.

“Yes,” Fortuna said, “do try to keep up—I’ve got places to be, as do you. Now”—she looked at me—“is it at least safe to assume that she knows about Randy and Koschei?”

I nodded.

“Right, well, at least there’s that. Now, before you two can redress the issue with Randy and the Lich, you must first restore his,” she nodded at me, “power. Hold on a minute.” She reached down into a briefcase—the same one she’d been carrying when I’d seen her at the jail—and fished out a dossier. She pulled out a glossy photo of what almost looked like a drinking flask.

“This,” she pointed at the photo, “is the Holy Grail. Ancient and holy relic of the Church and the White King. It was once a cup, the one Jesus drank from at the Last Supper, but which was later used by Joseph of Arimathea to collect Jesus’ blood during the crucifixion—obviously it has been altered a bit, but the Grail it remains.”

“Jesus, Joseph, Mary,” Ferraro said, not as a curse, but more as an invocation, crossing herself as she spoke. “This is real? The real Grail?” She put out a hand and touched the photo.

“You a true believer?” I asked Ferraro. Now, I’m kind of a believer myself—though I’m not exactly on friendly terms with God, I absolutely believe in Him—but I wouldn’t have pegged Ferraro as being the religious type. Not that there’s anything wrong with having belief or conviction in something better—especially if that conviction leads you to be a less shitty human being. But it’s not my cup of tea. My cup of tea suspiciously resembles a dirty shot glass full of Gentleman Jack. And Ferraro, well, she seemed too … I dunno … too no-nonsense I guess, to have religion.

“I’m a recovering Catholic,” she replied. “But this …” She touched the photo again. “The Grail?”

“Yes,” Fortuna said. “It’s a big deal, obviously.” She quirked an eyebrow at me, as though to say,
Pay attention, this is important
. “Now, the Grail has long been a sought after artifact—Joseph of Arimathea brought the cup to England, as legend holds, and eventually Sir Galahad, son of Lancelot, knight of King Arthur’s court recovered the item—”

“Alright,” I said, “I’m just gonna stop you right there.” I spread my hands flat against the table, trying really hard not to throw something—like a saltshaker maybe—at the living incarnation of luck. “I got the scoop. There’s a magic—”

“Not magic,
holy
,” Fortuna corrected.

“Fine, ‘holy’ drinking flask. Whatever. Check. And we need to find it, I’m all up to speed here, so let’s move this horse and pony show along, huh?” I lowered my voice. “I want to spend as little time as possible here—I’ve got a bad feeling that things are gonna get messy if we cool our heels in this shit-hole too much longer. Just a hunch, but it pays to listen to your hunches.”

Lady Luck stared at me over the top of her narrow glasses, her face the very expression of exasperation—it was the look an exasperated librarian might offer to some unruly school kid. “The history of this matter
is
quite important, so the less you interrupt me, the faster you can be on your way.”

I sat back in my seat with a sigh “Yeah, fine,” I mumbled, annoyed. “Whatever.” I crossed my arms. Some people.

“As I was saying,” she continued, “Sir Galahad recovered the Grail, and was charged with returning the cup to the holy city of Sarras. The Grail never made it. During the last leg of the journey, Sir Galahad received a vision of Joseph of Arimathea, who charged the knight with protecting the Grail. Galahad was granted life unending to fulfill his task. You will need to both find the Chalice and free its Guardian, Sir Galahad, from whatever predicament he’s managed to get himself into. Understand?”

“Wait, so you’re telling me this poor schmuck got bamboozled into taking care of this cup until the world stops spinning?” I asked. “Man, did that guy get a shitty deal.”

“The Grail,” she said, “is a tremendously powerful artifact—among its many attributes is its ability to cure any sickness, heal even the most egregious wounds, and treat any poison. It’s very important and the task was a blessing bestowed upon Galahad, not a curse. Regardless of your feelings on the matter, you need to get the Chalice and the knight—he is the only one who knows how to use the Grail. You get cured and get your powers back, Lady Fate gets to prevent an unfortunate future, and I get a little good will from the White King above for freeing his Guardian. It’s a win-win-win.” She smiled.