Headless Hardluck

I had time to kill before the meeting with Crane, so I walked west on Downey Street until I came to the Rabbit Hole, the place on the matchbox I’d found at the crime scene. The entrance was an old cobblestone stairwell crammed between two brick buildings that led to an underground space with nothing but a small iron sign hanging against the side wall to give it away. If it had been anymore out of the way, I’d have missed it entirely.

I descended the stairs to a sturdy red door that opened into a low-lit room with industrial décor, all exposed brick and piping with window wells that opened into the street above.

To the right was the bar, a slab of polished oak and it was clear from how the surface reflected the dimmed glow of the old pipe light fixture above it that the barman behind it took good care of it. Lined along the left and back walls were 7 simple wooden booths with leather cushion seating. In the center of it all were 2 billiard tables where a few patrons were gathered playing a game of cut-throat, or at least they were but now every eye in place was on me. That was understandable, this place was out of the way and these guys weren’t used to new faces, or... well... you get what I mean. I ambled up to the stool at the end of the bar, planted myself in it and waited for the air to come back into the room.

The barman: a well-groomed, barrel of a man with a braided shock of reddish blonde beard draped down his chest, was the first to remember how his lungs worked. I had to hand it to him, he recovered fast. He was no stranger to fae, hell, nobody in this town was and based on his size he could’ve been a troll or a giant himself but still, I’m something else altogether. He gave me one more hard eyed appraisal, trying to decide if I was going to be trouble, and I let him. I came here looking for answers, not a fight. The fight could always come later depending on whether I found what I was looking for, or not. Then his eyes moved back to the rag and tumbler in his hands and, as if by some signal I didn’t see, everyone else returned to what they were doing as well.

I flagged down the barman with two fingers then started digging through the pockets of my trench coat for my wallet, lighter and cigarettes.

“What can I get for you, Sir?” He asked, setting the tumbler under the counter and tossing the rag over his shoulder. His voice was distant thunder, quiet but unmistakable for anything but power. Now that he was closer, I could see I hadn’t misjudged him, well not entirely. He was at least half giant. Nearly 7 feet tall and wide with arms as thick around as my thighs. His hair was shaved close on the sides while the top was long and slicked back and beneath that, keen eyes stared out over full, freckled cheeks. He looked like a Norse god in an apron which, for all I knew, he could be. I had a job to do but if I could help it, I'd rather not get on this guy’s bad side, he could toss me faster than a spent shell casing.

I glanced passed him to the liquor racks on the wall, scanned the bourbon until I found one I recognised and pointed. His eyes followed my finger until they landed on the bottle of Buffalo Brand. He pulled it off the shelf and turned it showing me the bottles label, one bushy eyebrow arched in question. It was a fascinating expression. I held up three fingers to him in response and he gave me a nod, reached for the tumbler he’d set down a moment before, and paused to look back to me as if something had just occurred to him. I half expected him to ask me if I needed a funnel (it’s happened before), but he just opened the cooler, gave a tilt of his head towards it and asked, “You want ice?” I waved him off.

While he poured the amber contents of the bottle into the glass, I dropped a ten on the bar top and reached over to grab an ashtray from behind it.

I was lighting a cigerette when he placed the glass in front of me, slowly rolling the lit end over the flame until the cherry was glowing. I flipped the lighter closed, dropped it on the counter and moved my free hand from where my mouth should be downward and forward, open palm up, towards him in a gesture of thanks. He covered the ten-note in a meaty palm and slid it over and off the counter.

I admired the guy’s self-control, he’d barely given a sideways glance above my collar during our entire interaction until now so I couldn’t blame him when I caught his eyes shifting from the glass to the cigarette to the empty space above my shoulders where my head should be. I could practically see the questions forming in his head.

Here’s the thing, I don’t have a good explanation for what I am or how I can do what I do and I don’t know if anybody does. I haven’t got a clue why I don’t need to eat but without my beauty rest I become a very cranky boy. I can’t tell you how I can see perfectly during the day or night without any obvious sensory organs, or why whatever does allow me to do that doesn’t let me see in all directions at once. My peripherals are pretty good, better than average I figure, but if I don’t consciously look behind me, it’s a total blind spot back there. I can’t tell you how I know the guy sitting 2 stools down from me hasn’t showered in a few days, that the barman had a beef burrito with guac for lunch, or how I am enjoying the smell of the Red Stoker burning itself down over my ashtray right now. What I can tell you is this, I’m good with fire. Really good. I’m connected to it somehow and I can do things with a flame that some of the demons I know are still scratching their heads over. And I don’t know how you thought this was going to go but I’ll give you a hint; I’m not about to dump this glass of ninety proof whiskey down my open throat hole.

Firstly, whatever hoodoo took my head didn't exactly leave me with an open bleeding stump two-thirds the way up my neck. It's more like an open black hole wreathed in dim blue flames, looks a little like turning on a gas stove on to the lowest setting. Hell, why do you think I wear turtlenecks everywhere. It’s not a fashion statement, I just don’t like people staring at it. And secondly, although I’ve never tried dumping anything in there, my instincts tell me that isn’t the way I’m supposed to do it.

I held the glass out in front of me, aware I was gathering sidelong glances from not just the barman but from the other patrons as well, apparently expecting a show. So, I focused on the glass, reached down for the flame inside me and prepared to disappoint them.

The contents in the tumbler began to flash boil. Pure alcohol boils at 172 degrees Fahrenheit where water boils at something like 212 degrees. Alcohol also reaches higher temperatures faster so the trick is to heat it at just the right speed so that everything burns off at roughly the same time. All while keeping the glass itself below about 150 degrees, that’s important because anything higher and the glass will shatter. Again, I can’t tell you how exactly I can do this, for now let just go with convenient magic and suffice it to say I’ve had enough practice to get pretty good at it. After a few seconds the bourbon began to evaporate, and I drew the vapors in, something like taking in a slow deep breath, letting the caramel, honey and vanilla favors hit me. Yes, I can experience taste as well and this is good stuff. Then I stopped with half the liquid still in the glass, quickly lowering it back down to room temperature and set it down.

With the show apparently over, the barman, just a little ashamed of himself for expecting something more grotesque and a little disappointed at me for not delivering but his curiosity satisfied, again returned to cleaning his glass. And again, taking their cues from him, the rest of the patrons went back to their drinks and conversation. Though, they too were all visibly disappointed. What can I say, my days of showmanship are far behind me.

Before he could wonder back to the other side of the counter, I grabbed the barman’s arm to get his attention. I’d had my drink and they’d had their show, now it was time for business.

“Somethin’ else I can do for you?” he asked.

I pulled out the photo of Katrina that Mrs. Harrington had given me this morning and slid it over to him. He picked it up and inspected it for a moment before looking back at me with that raised eyebrow that was basically a question mark tattooed on his forehead and again, I marveled at how convenient facial expressions are. Or a face, for that matter. I made a quick mental note that when I got my head back, I was going to try that nifty eyebrow thing.

“You lookin’ for her?” he asked.

There are only so many ways to communicate when you’re headless. I doubted this guy knew sign language, so I figured there was no point bothering with the niceties. Normally, I’d let Al interpret for me but I was impatient and didn’t bother to swing by the office to pick him up before I came here. I could hand him one of the new cards Lori had made for me, but I was pretty sure this crowd wouldn’t respond well to a mercenary poking around their watering hole. Best to play this close to the vest for now.

He mistook my lack of response as a response in itself I guess because he gave the photo another quick glance, handed it back, and said, “Sorry, haven’t seen ‘er. Anythin’ else I can help you with?” I took the photo, slipped it back into my pocket, vaporized what was left in my glass and handed it back to him.

I spent the next half hour showing the picture of Katrina to the patrons of the Rabbit Hole but all I came up with was jack and shit. I was just about to leave, the last of both my luck and my money spent, when the door swung open, and two men walked through. The first was thin and fox-faced and the second was a hulking slab of meat and fat stuffed into sweatpants and a hoodie.

The two of them made their way to the bar and stood on either side of me. The meat bag laid a thick hand on my shoulder. I can’t sigh, but if I could this felt like the moment for it.

Fox-face looked to the Barman, “My friend here’s tab is on me tonight Donny” he said, jamming a thumb in my direction, “Unfortunately, he’s got somewhere to be right now, so we’ll go ahead and square him up.'' His tone was polite like he thought his words spilled out like honey, instead they dripped out, slick and oleaginous.

Donny, as I had just learned his name was, spared me a brief apologetic glance. Whether that apology was for not interfering or because he was the one who called these goons in the first place, I couldn’t tell.

“No, he’s all paid up.” he said, which was generous considering it wasn’t true.

Fox face nodded then turned to me, smiled and said, “Alright then, Mr. Hardluck. We need to have a quick chat so we’re gonna get up and walk out the back. Now please, don’t make a fuss, I happen to like this bar and I don’t want to see it damaged.” There was no malice in his voice. In fact, the bastard was damned convivial. All smiles like he was hosting a game show and I was the lucky contestant randomly selected from the audience. Meatbag, on the other hand, was a blank slate. His face was set in a permanent scowl, and I couldn’t tell if that was for me or if it was stuck that way.

I stood up slowly, stamped out my cigarette and the three of us walked to the door at the back of the bar. The barman wouldn’t look at me. His huge frame seemed to diminish like he was trying his hardest to disappear. Meatbag’s hand never left my shoulder.

Outside, night had come and brought a chill with it. We were still below street level, the backdoor opened into an alleyway that stretched out a couple of yards before ending at two stone stairwells on either side.

Until now, Meatbag had kept me walking in front but when we stepped through the door, he shoved me forward. I stumbled just a little for effect, it wouldn’t hurt for them to think I was drunker than I was, before finding my balance. I took my time, straightening my coat before turning back to face them. Backing up enough so that the alley wall was just a few inches from my back and keeping both of them in my field of view and now that I got a good look at them, I noticed neither of them were human.

Fox-face looked human enough at a distance but close up, I caught a glimpse of serrated teeth through his smile. Meatbag looked to be too big for his skin, like he was wearing a suit a few sizes too small.

“You’ve been asking around about the Harrington girl.” Fox-face, said and pulled a pack of Redstokers from his pocket, lit two and handed me one. “You’re preferred brand, if I’m not mistaken.” he said after I didn’t immediately take it. I let another second or two go by then I took it. Why not? I still had a half hour before the meeting with Crane and maybe these two idiots could tell me something I didn’t already know, the least of which being who sent them. I was still new in town and it didn’t hurt to get to know the local players. So, I’d let them play out their routine for now.

“That was unfortunate business.” Foxface continued, “And my partner and I, as well as the party we represent, are very sorry for the old widow. That being said, your handling of this case has been a little...” He looked away, searching for the right word, then found it, “Indelicate.” Which was a nice way of saying that I’d killed three men, sent a few more to the hospital, and nearly destroyed a building, all in the twenty-four hours since I got into town. Damn, now that I thought about it, maybe Lori was right, maybe I could use a different approach. After all, where had all of that gotten me so far? Nowhere. I made another mental note to start working on that, right after I’d dealt with these two.

Foxface took a long drag of his cigarette. “We’ve been sent to discourage you from bringing Mr. Adler, our employer, any further into your investigation. Your recent run-in with his associates has brought his business unwanted attention.” He emphasized the last two words and Meatbag who still hadn’t opened his mouth, let out a growl through his teeth which was probably meant to intimidate me.

David Adler. I recognized the name from the file on Lori’s desk, suspected drug connections but the cops could never tie him to anything. Then it clicked, the dealer’s I’d run into in the park yesterday peddling pixie dust must be working for Adler. But what did that have to do with Katrina’s disappearance or the death of Peter Harrington? Maybe nothing, but for now it was a string to pull on.

“I can assure you that neither Mr. Adler nor his business partners have anything to do with Mr. Harrington’s death or the girl’s disappearance.” Foxface continued, assuming the direction of my train of thought. “In fact, Mr. Adler has a vested interest in this case coming to a swift resolution. He simply wishes that you refrain from causing him any more trouble while you continue your investigation.” He finished and stamped his cigarette out beneath his shoe.

There was a long pause and without thinking I signed. Is that it? Before realizing these two wouldn’t understand me.

Foxface looked from me to Meatbag then asked? “What did he say?”

Meatbag who hadn’t taken his eyes off me since they arrive in the bar finally looked over to Foxface and replied in a voice that sounded like two stones rubbing together, “He’s asking if that’s all.” I don’t mind telling you that if I had a jaw; just then, I’d be picking it up off the floor. Meatbag must have sensed my surprise because he looked back to me and said, “My sister’s deaf.”

Foxface smiled, shark’s teeth gleaming behind taught lips and clapped his hands together. “That’s it! You’ve got the message; my business here is done. Short and sweet. This wasn’t a personal visit, Mr. Hardluck. Mr. Adler gave very specific instructions that you were not to be harmed.” He stepped towards me and offered his hand. I didn’t take it. He shrugged, unbothered and let his hand fall. He turned on his heel and started to walk away but stopped, raised a finger in the air as if something had just occurred to him and said, “Well, there is just one thing.” I had turned my body to watch him go, just enough that I lost sight of Meatbag for a split second, but it was enough.

My world exploded. Pain shot from my groin and radiated out through the rest of my body as, from behind me, Meatbag’s foot came up between my legs with enough force to give me airtime. I could tell the fucker had a wide foot too because he kicked both of my rocks straight into my throat. Ding. The hit rang me like a bell and dropped to my knees. It hurt. I’m hard to kill, so hard in fact that I’m not one-hundred percent sure that it can be done. But just then I wanted to roll over and give up the ghost for good.

“One of those guys you sent to the hospital yesterday,” I stared at the, still burning, cigarette I’d dropped next to Foxface’s shoes from my spot on the ground as he spoke, my balls in my stomach and the world spinning around me. “He was my partner’s cousin, you see?. And I’m afraid he’s pretty upset with you.” Meatbag growled again in agreement.

I felt a hand grip me under my arm and yank me back up onto my feet. “And the Boss isn’t here right now.” Foxface said as he stepped in close. “So, the way I see it is, what he doesn’t know...” he paused, snarled through a rictus grin, and then the sneaky bastard rabbit punched me in the gut and continued, “can still hurt you.” I’m not proud of it but I buckled, and I would have been right back on the ground but Meatbag’s massive hand in my armpit kept me upright, mostly. Foxface leaned in close, pulled out two more cigarettes and lit them.

“We’re going to hurt you now Mr. Hardluck. I’d like to say it’s nothing personal but,” he pulled a long drag from one of the cigarettes and offered me the other again, “that’s exactly what it is.” His tv show host smile was back in place now. “Do you have anything you’d like to say before we get started?” he asked when I took the cigarette.

I took the momentary breather to pull a heavy drag off the cigarette, coaxing the cherry to burn brightly and drawing the smoke into the void over my collar, letting the sensation revive me. The gut punch had helped chase my balls out of my stomach, the poor guys, and got my legs back under me. But I kept up the pathetic look a little longer, milking it but not by much since I was still in a lot of pain and now the alcohol was starting to play it’s part. I let Meatbag take most of my weight in his hand under my right armpit and with my left hand I rubbed my chest in a clockwise circle, open handed. Then I closed my fist and dragged my extended thumb along where my chin should be and finally used my index finger to draw a circle around where my face should be. I could tell the goliath understood me because he growled again, gave an exasperated roll of eyes inset deep beneath his protruding brow and dropped me. And for the fourth time today I was greeted by my only true friend; the floor.

Foxface looked to his partner, his expression blank and asked, “Well, what did he say?”

Meatbag didn’t answer at first, just stared at me in loathing.

“We don’t have all night, big man,” Foxface insisted, waving him on.

The big man huffed then reluctantly relayed my message. “He says not to touch his face.”

The thin man looked from the big man to me, his expression still blank before his eyes fixed on me. I was still on my knees, but I had propped myself up on an elbow, one hand was on my stomach and my shoulders were shaking. Then his face turned ashen. “What’s he doing now? What does that mean?” He demanded; his tone was even but his TV show host smile was gone. He was looking at Meatbag but pointing to me. Meatbag glanced down at me but didn’t respond. He just looked like he was considering whether he should kick me again.

“Well?” Foxface said, his mouth tight, impatience starting to color his voice, the friendly facade gone completely now. Meatbag put a palm to his forehead and dragged it down his face but answered “It doesn’t mean anything. He’s laughing.”

“He’s… Laughing?” Daily said, then turned to me, a twitch forming under his eye. “You’re laughing.” For just a moment whatever witch’s glammer he’d been fitted with slipped, and I could see the monster beneath. But just as quickly it was back and the smile with it.

He waved a hand at his partner and stepped back towards me, “Pick him up, would you please.”

I felt myself being hoisted off the ground by the collar of my coat like a child and suddenly my feet were under me again. The brute was strong, maybe stronger than me, I’d need to get outside of his reach if I was going to stand a chance. I kept my knees relaxed, not letting my feet take my weight and forcing Meatbag to keep me upright. The effect was twofold. The first was that it made me seem like I was still addled and weak from the earlier blow. Which was technically true but now I was milking it. The second was that it made Meatbag, who was initially holding me high enough that my toes were bushing the cobblestones, mistake my height and lower me just enough that, if I stood at my full height, I could plant my heels down.

Foxface came in close, close enough that I could feel his breath and said, “So you have a sense of humor Mr. Hardluck. That’s good.” He slipped his right hand into his pocket and tucked the fingers of his left hand under the lapel of my coat and gripped it tight. “I look forward to seeing my partner here beat that out of you to. But I can’t let him have all the fun so first, I think I’ll take my pound of flesh.” His hand came free from his pocket and with it a fully extended three-inch switchblade. He slashed the blade towards me in an upward motion, meaning to open a cut in my chest but it never reached me. I grabbed his wrist mid swing, not stopping it, just redirecting it a little. Planting my feet down, I used the new slack to move my body out of the path of the knife and forced it up and into the underside of Meatbag’s forearm. Foxface panicked and sprang back while the big guy stared at the handle jutting out of his arm, not so much in pain but more like he was trying to figure out if that had been there a second ago. But it must have severed a tendon or two because his grip loosened enough for me to dance out of his reach.

I couldn’t keep this fight up two on one so I pressed my advantage with foxface, his body reacted out of instinct before, but his mind hadn’t quite caught up with the situation so when I charged him, all he had time to do was throw up his hands in front of his face and scream, “No, wait!” before I slipped his arms and landed a solid hit to his kidney. He cried out and would have gone down but I grabbed him by the throat and held him up, placing his body between me and the big guy who was now focused on slowly pulling the steel out of his arm.

Until this exact moment Fox-face had written me off as one more supernatural scumbag who wasn’t worth the paper his legend was written on. And why wouldn’t he? As far as he’d seen, I was a piss poor excuse for a gumshoe who ran his mouth, or hands, off too much and couldn’t hold his liquor and I might have let him just go on believing that. But in the last twenty-four hours, I had been framed for a crime I didn’t commit, blackmailed into taking this stupid job, I was tired, I was pissed, and now this guy and his pet gorilla come crawling out of the woodwork and kick me in the nuts. Somebody needed to pay and these two were in arms reach.

I held the cigarette he’d given to me with the lit end towards his face, leaving about an inch of space between them. A century ago, I’d pull this next trick off with a skull or a jack-o'-lantern. A decision I have since come to regret, but I was more dramatic in my youth and anyway the idea was to have a focal point for the victim to look at so, in theory, a cigarette should work as well as anything. I concentrated on the heat from the cherry and let old magic do its work.

The embers crackled, then flared up. Tongues of fire stemming from the cigarette’s tip, lashed out in all directions. The conflagration spun itself into a vortex. His eyes widened as he stared into the portal I’d torn into the abyss. Hell spawn crawled up from the pit and clawed at him. Foxface struggled uselessly against my grip. “No, please, keep them away from me! Please, I’m begging you.” he wailed, and I noticed that he was soiling himself. I figured I had scared him enough and was just about to release the illusion when his body went limp like a ragdoll. He’d fainted. I admit I was a little disappointed. After all that talk, one little spell and he was catatonic and leaking piss and drool.

I dropped him and left him there. At the same time, the big guy had managed to get the knife free without so much as a wince was now staring daggers at me. I quickly ran through my options, and they didn’t look good. I sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to rope-a-dope this guy while he was throwing haymakers this size basketballs at me. He might get tired eventually but not before he turned me into a red stain on the floor. I could run but I really wanted to quash this here and now and keep these guys off my back in the future. Then an idea hit me.

He charged me, sensing I was too much of a scaredy-cat to make the first move. For what it’s worth, he was right. I needed him to charge me. When he was just a few feet from me, I flicked what was left of the cigarette into his face and cast some quick hoodoo at it. It exploded, mostly harmless but the effect was that it performed like a flash bang. He was blind but still coming at me full tilt, I dropped to my back, tucked my knees into my chest and with every ounce of strength I had left in my body, I shot my feet out and caught him right in the jewels. It was like kicking boulders, but he let out something between a cry and a moan and his body rag dolled over me and soared through the air behind me, crashing into and through the back door of the Rabbit Hole.

I stood up and made my way through what was left of the door to see the entire room was staring at me again. Meatbag was still on the floor clutching his package. “You cheated.” he winced, and his voice was a few octaves higher.

I didn’t bother with a response other than to flip him the finger.

I rummaged through his pockets until I found his wallet. “What’re you--” he started to say but I interrupted him with a foot to his jaw. While he moaned on the floor, I stepped back outside walking over to Foxface’s body rolling him over and taking his wallet as well. Finally, I went back inside, stepped over the fetal big guy and headed over to where Donny stood at the other end of the bar. I opened the wallets I’d just rolled and pulled out all the cash they had between them, gave it a quick count, something like three-hundred bucks. I took 2 twenties from the stack and tossed the rest of it on the bar. Donny just stared at the money, the guilt and shame was plain on his face and kept him from reaching for it immediately.

I glanced up at the clock above the bar. It read 08:50. Damn. And now I was going to be late for my meeting. My anger boiled up and I grabbed the ashtray next to me and I chucked it at Meatbag.

“Ow!” he whimpered, and I felt a little like I’d just kicked a dog. Damnit, Lori was right. I’ve got to work on my anger.

With a new wad of cash in my pocket, a tenuous new lead that may or may not have anything to do with my missing girl, and in a fouler mood than when I’d arrived, I left the Rabbit hole.