Hell's Horizon (8 page)

“I know you don’t want to discuss her boyfriends,” I said, “but there’s one I was hoping to check on. A tall, bald, black man. Do you know if she was seeing anyone like that?”

“You mean the guy with the snakes.”

“Snakes?”

“I saw them together a couple of times. She never introduced us. Only laughed when I asked his name and said he was her snake-boy.”

“What’s the deal with the snakes? Did he own one?”

“He had two. Carried them with him everywhere.” She laughed at my confusion. “Not real snakes,” she explained. “Tattoos. On his cheeks.”

I froze.

“Are you all right?” Priscilla asked. “You look like you’ve swallowed a rotten egg.”

I counted to ten inside my head and when I spoke it was with only the vaguest hint of a stutter. “Nic was seeing a bald, black man with snakes tattooed on his face?”

“Yes.”

“Down his cheeks, one on either side, multicolored?”

She smiled uncertainly. “You know him?”

“I know of him.”

I placed my napkin on the table and stood. “I have to leave now.”

She got up as I stepped away from the table. “What’s going on, Al? Did I say something wrong?”

“No. I just have to go.”

“But the meal is on its way.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“But…
Al!
”

I was gone before she could say any more.

Outside I walked fast, away from the Ku Klux Klub and its exclusive band of patrons, ignoring the hisses, catcalls and slow handclaps that accompanied my departure. I walked until my lungs pained me, then paused, doubled over, took several deep breaths, and walked some more. Finally I stopped by a deserted bus shelter and perched on one of the folding plastic chairs.

Black. Tall. Bald. Snakes tattooed on his cheeks. Only one man in the city answered that description—
Paucar Wami
. The city’s deadliest, most feared assassin. If Paucar Wami was involved, that was it for me. I didn’t care what The Cardinal threatened to do. I’d make an appointment, tell him what I knew, then hand in my resignation. I’d rather face the wrath of The Cardinal than the prospect of a showdown with Paucar Wami. Any day.

7

B
y the time I arrived home I was dying for a drink. Nights are the worst time for a reformed alcoholic, especially one living alone. The long hours of dark loneliness and need, the nocturnal thirst, memories of past, brighter, livelier nights when the bottle was your ally and the world was your friend.

I usually fought the craving with food. I’d tuck into a burger, Chinese or fried chicken, read a trashy novel and do my best to tune out the real world and its many liquid pitfalls. Tonight it was extra-important to divert my thoughts, and quickly, before fear pushed me over the edge of sobriety.

Pulling up to the curb outside my apartment, I hurried into the bagel shop. Ali was inside. I don’t think that was his real name but it’s what everyone called him.

“Hello, my friend,” he greeted me.

“Hi, Ali,” I smiled back.

“Dining at home tonight?” he asked.

“It’s cheap and the company’s good.”

He laughed. “You will not get fat this way, my friend. You need a new wife. A woman would fatten you up.”

“Then nag me about my love handles. I’d have to exercise to work the weight off. Then I’d be thin again.”

“There is wisdom in your words,” he chuckled, then turned to the bagels. “Salmon and cream cheese?”

“Four times over,” I said, licking my lips.

“Four?” he blinked.

“You said I needed fattening up.”

Ali stuck the wrapped bagels into the microwave and adjusted the setting.

“How is our friend The Cardinal today?” he asked as he handed over the bagels. According to him, The Cardinal used to go to a shop he ran uptown many years ago. I used to tell him I never saw The Cardinal but he didn’t believe me, so I’d taken to acting as if the two of us were best buddies.

“He’s fine. Asked after you the other day.”

“Did he?”

“Said you should come by some night, chat about old times.”

“I may just do that,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

I shook the bag of bagels. “I’m off before these get cold. See you, Ali.”

“Soon, my friend.”

I unwrapped one of the bagels and chewed it as I made my way up the stairs. I’d finished it by the time I let myself in and the other three didn’t last much longer. I realized I needed more food, so I hurried back downstairs to the nearby 7-Eleven and loaded up on chocolate. I spent a few hours nibbling and trying to concentrate on a biography of Ian Fleming, the guy who invented James Bond. But it was hard. Thoughts of Paucar Wami were impossible to escape from. And if I managed to momentarily forget about him, my eyes would flick to the dark marble with the gold squiggles on the mantelpiece and the worry would flood back. The marble and Wami couldn’t be connected, but it now seemed to serve as some kind of omen and looking at it filled me with unease.

Priscilla rang close to midnight, a welcome distraction. She apologized for taking me to the Kool Kats Klub and suggested another rendezvous, this time at a place of my choosing. I said maybe. She urged me to think about it—she really wanted to see me again. Also, if I was serious about investigating Nic’s murder, she’d like to help, short of giving me the names of Nic’s old boyfriends. We discussed her some more, then she hung up.

I returned to the Fleming biography but couldn’t focus. My mind kept fixing on the image of Paucar Wami with Nic. I’d never met the notorious killer but I was able to picture him—tall, dark, sinister, arms wrapped around Nic in Room 812 of the Skylight, fingers working at her back, sucking the life from her pain-contorted lips.

I put the book to one side, undressed and readied myself for bed. But sleep was harder to slip into than the biography and I spent most of the night chasing it in vain. On the few occasions I dozed off, I slept fitfully and dreamed of long, undulating snakes with forked, flicking tongues.

I got up at six, ate a slow breakfast, then cycled to Party Central to book an audience with The Cardinal. I was told he wouldn’t be available until late evening, unless it was an emergency. I said I’d wait, then headed down to a cafeteria to brood about Nic and Paucar Wami.

I’d calmed down since the night before. Though my fear of Wami persisted, I couldn’t simply march into The Cardinal’s office and tell him I was through. The Cardinal had a quick temper. I’d have to be diplomatic. I’d tell him about Wami and state my reluctance to continue. Hopefully he’d show mercy and let me off the hook.

In the meantime I decided to set up an interview with Rudi Ziegler. That way I could face The Cardinal with proof that I hadn’t been sitting around idle.

I requested Ziegler’s file, expecting a slim volume like Nic’s, only for a thick ledger to arrive. I took it to a private reading room and pored over it. It was mostly lists of his clients and the details—where known—of what he’d been up to with them, how much he was milking them for. I skipped the bulk of it and focused on his background info.

Rudi Ziegler was his real name. Fifty-one, of Eastern European stock. A bachelor. No close family. No clashes with the law. Declared about ninety thousand annually but drew in the region of one-fifty to two hundred. Had a good reputation but wasn’t above ripping off wealthy old women. Went abroad every year for a month’s vacation. Didn’t own much in the way of property apart from a moderate villa on a Caribbean island. No business interests outside of his own.

He specialized in Incan guides. From what I could gather, every medium has a spirit guide who helps put him in contact with the dear departed. Usually it’s an Indian or a little girl, but Ziegler preferred Incas. And—this caught my attention—the Incas used to worship the sun.

I scribbled swiftly. “Incas—sun worshippers—Nic’s brooch—Priscilla’s ring—carving on Nic’s back—
connection???
”

I was hoping there’d be dirt on him—clients who had mysteriously vanished, contacts of his who’d met with nasty ends—but I couldn’t find any. If The Cardinal didn’t yank me off the case I’d return to this file, but the day was wearing on and I wanted to be back in time for my big meeting. I returned the file, then called Ziegler—an answering machine. His cell phone cut directly to voice mail. I pondered my next move. I could wait and call again, or I could head over and try catching him at home.

I was in no mood for waiting, so I tucked Ziegler’s address away in a pocket, fetched my bike and went searching.

Rudi Ziegler lived above a butcher’s shop in a run-down part of the city. I parked out front and chained my back wheel to a fire hydrant. The lower hall door was open, so I entered. The smell of blood tracked me up the stairs like a dog. I found his door and knocked.

A sleepy Ziegler answered. He was overweight, flesh hanging off him like warm wax. Quivering gray lips, red spiderwebs for eyes, purple, vein-shot cheeks. There was a half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand. He was dressed in a shabby robe and moth-eaten slippers. Hard to believe this wreck of a man drew a couple of hundred grand a year.

“May I help you?” he asked in an oddly lyrical voice. I took another look at him, surprised the throat had survived the ravages of drink when all else hadn’t.

“Rudi Ziegler?”

“None other. Come in, please.” I followed him in and he shut the door. “Do you drink?” he asked, offering me a swig. I shook my head. “Wise man. Demons dwell within.” He blew his nose into a satin handkerchief and studied me. “You’re here about Nicola, aren’t you?”

I twitched. “How did you know?”

“I have my ways,” he said, lowering his face so that it darkened and split into a wizardish smile. “She came to me in a vision last night and said I could expect a stranger to call and ask intrusive questions. She told me not to cooperate.” I stared, edgy, until his laughter took the spine-tingling sting out of the moment.

“A joke,” he sighed. “The dead don’t talk to me, despite what my business card says. I’ve just had so many people here this last week, first detectives, then the police, that I’ve grown accustomed to their inquisitive appearance. Besides, my clients don’t turn up uninvited.”

“What detectives?” I asked curiously.

“They didn’t leave names. Nor did they tell me what they wanted. It was only when I heard about her death that I figured it out.”

They must have been The Cardinal’s men, the ones who put the file on Nic together.

“May
I
ask some questions, Mr. Ziegler?”

“By all means. Follow, dear boy, follow.” He led the way through to a large room that served as his work chamber. The walls were covered with billowing curtains and the scent of incense hung heavily in the air. A large table dominated the center of the room. Clothes and bric-a-brac were scattered untidily everywhere I looked. A huge sun medallion was pinned to the ceiling.

When we were seated I told him who I was, explained how I wasn’t a detective, just a concerned friend. He said it didn’t matter, he’d talk to me anyway. I started off by asking about his profession. “Is this where you work?”

“It is.” He cast an eye over the room. “Though it’s usually not in such a state. Nicola’s death left its mark.” He shook the bottle of vodka. “You wouldn’t see this out so early on a normal day.”

“Can you tell me more about what you do? Do you tell fortunes, locate missing people, speak with the dead?”

“A bit of everything. I’m a dabbler.” He stood and tidied some magazines away. “I provide whatever my clients wish. If they want their fortune read, I put the crystal ball or tarot to good use. If they want to speak to the dead, I oblige—I’m quite good at throwing my voice. If they want to
see
the dead, I do that too. Mirrors and smoke. Projected images.”

“You’re very open about your deception.”

“I have nothing to hide from those who are not interested in hiring me.”

“How about dark magic?”

“I don’t believe in magic,” he snapped. “I trade in tricks, shadows, illusions. Nothing else.”

“But if your client believes, and wants to see demons and devils, what then?”

“I turn them away. Illusions stretch so far but no further. I’m good, Mr. Jeery, a professional. But I have my limits.”

“You don’t dabble in the dark arts at all?”

“Never. I use Ouija boards and cards, but never in the right way, never—”

“The
right
way?” I was on him in a flash.

“The correct way. The actual—”

“You just said you didn’t believe in any of that.”

“I don’t, but—”

“Then surely
any
way’s the
right
way.”

He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief and downed another shot of vodka. “I don’t
believe
,” he said softly, “but one encounters things in my line which cannot be explained, apparitions which cannot be accounted for. Are they demons? Souls of the dead made visible? I don’t know. I simply play games with the forces of the arcane. Games are all I’m interested in.”

“Was Nicola Hornyak only interested in games?” I asked.

“No. At first she was happy with what I had to offer—my bag of voices, Incan spirits, clouds of fog and changes in temperature. But she soon wanted to take it further.”

“How far?”

“She wanted…” He laughed. “She wanted a lover. A spirit lover. She wanted to screw a demon.”

“Christ.”

“I fobbed her off for a time with vague promises—I claimed to be privy to certain ancient rites—but eventually, when pressed, had to say that I was afraid of opening up dark portals which were best kept closed. That sort of garbage.”

“Why not tell her the truth?”

“And put myself out of business? I never tell my clients they’re barking up banana trees. You don’t get rich that way.”

I mused on his words, then asked what happened next.

“She moved on.”

“To another mystic?”

“I’m not sure. She came a few more times, but not as regularly as before.”

“When did you last see her?”

“About a month before her death. Maybe three weeks.”

“Why did she come?”

“To show me her demon lover.”

I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“She came with a menacing-looking black man. According to her, he was her lover from beyond. She wouldn’t tell me how she’d contacted him, but said he was everything she’d ever wanted, and more.” He giggled into a fist. “I’d love to know what he did to convince her of his credentials.”

“What did he look like?” I asked, though I already knew.

“Very dark-skinned. Tall. Bald. Tattoos of snakes on both cheeks.”

“Did he speak while he was here?”

“No. He remained in the background. She was only here a few minutes. Popped in to show him off and then she was on her merry way. Off to make whoopee with Beelzebub.”

That clinched it for me. Nic ran into Paucar Wami while playing games, he toyed with her until she ceased to amuse him, then killed her. But I decided to press ahead with a few more questions—if, as I hoped, this interview marked the end of my career as a private detective, I wanted to go out on a high note.