《TOBOBA》


 ONE

    Octobers aren¡¯t good for me. They¡¯re when the leaves turn brown and give up the ghost, knowing full well that an early freeze is coming. You¡¯d think, having my office in the heart of New Orleans, there wouldn¡¯t be a leaf in sight, but they¡¯re still there, in my heart and on the streets.


    Staring out through the window, watching passing shapes deformed by streams of oily water running down the glass, I can see the leaves. These leaves are shopping, hurrying home to their families, heading out for a night on the town. And all the while, they¡¯re as finite as those that fall from the trees. And I¡¯m keenly reminded that I too am one of the leaves.


    I


    It was definitely not my day. I¡¯d gotten things rolling by burning my hand juggling the coffee pot after I¡¯d nudged it off the heating plate with my elbow. Then the rain had started, which meant my shoes and socks were soggy by the time I reached the office.


    Adding insult to injury, my key seized up in the lock and I spent another five minutes swearing in the chill downpour before it grudgingly worked loose and turned. That afforded me to critically eye the motto LEE ¡®RED¡¯ GAMMON DETECTIVE AGENCY emblazoned across the pane in the door in fading and chipped lettering. Damn, I reflected, another expense to put off for the foreseeable future.


    Of course, there were no clients impatiently beating down the door to improve my mood. I wasn¡¯t surprised, s I hunted up various and sundry objects to catch the errant drops that had made it thought the tar paper roof and onto my weathered floor. October is usually quiet for the first few days, as the Big Easy favors a slow and casual transition from September.


    The city is like that. Things get done, but never in a hurry. Business generally perks up about the middle of the month, when pleasant summer memories fade and couples start picking up on the thousand and one little things that annoy each other. Then the ambitious ones come to me to see if the little woman has someone on the side, or if Antoine is experiencing an early case of cabin fever and looking for a little diversion. Sometimes their suspicions can pan out, but they can also prove to be unsupported Nine times out of ten, it¡¯s the latter case, but, hey, it kills a day or so of boredom finding that out, and I still get paid regardless.


    I spent the first hour juggling bills and neatly sorting them on the desk top by the furthest possible date I could reasonably pay them. Then I shrugged, lit up a Chesterfield, and swept the neat stacks into a desk drawer for later contemplation. Exhausted from my Herculean labors, I took a break for a cup of my usual brackish coffee.


    From nine to ten, I worked on fixing a stubborn key on my clarinet, wincing a I did so at the recollection of the sour solo I¡¯d inflicted on the paying customers at the Blue Note the prior evening. Then I wasted an hour working crosswords, erasing and revising every other word. I guess my mind just wasn¡¯t on business.


    The client arrived at eleven sharp, radiant and annoyingly dry thanks to a sightly oversized umbrella and a mauve raincoat. She was exotic. Thin, almost aquiline features and a dusty complexion that somehow defied classification. Not Mexican, not Polynesian, and definitely not Arabic. That surprised me a bit, as we get a pretty wide assortment of humanity through the Big Easy, and I can usually peg them. I got analytical.


    Her hair was a dark blood red and her eyes¡­well, it took me a while to get a clear look at them, as she spent several minutes shaking imagined stray raindrops from her perfectly sculpted mane. When I finally got a clear view, I decided they were a sort of iridescent gray. Like a cold mist. The kind I remembered from December mornings in Texas, just before Old Man Winter worked himself up to a proper snow. It had, I reflected, been a long time since I¡¯d been back home.


    I had a funny feeling about that performance. The lady was making a point of not looking directly at me. She settled into the worn client¡¯s chair and out came a compact notebook. This was pretty clearly a prop again designed to avoid eye contact. Her makeup, what little of it there was, was perfect. She made a few perfunctory flutters with a powder puff before getting down to business, but I doubt a single speck of powder actually touched her face.


    When she spoke, it was with studiously evasive eyes. She was pretty clearly not consulting notes, though that was obviously the impression she wanted to project. Yeah, she was every inch the matter-of-fact businesswoman. Cool, calm and almost painfully collected.


    ¡°Mr. Gammon? I am Emelia Korvas.¡±


    There was a slight pause between the title and my name, and there was a trace of an accent I couldn¡¯t quite place. Maybe French. It had that slight guttural feel to it, as if her tongue had locked up on the ¡®r.¡¯


    I nodded. It was my special noncommittal nod -- the one I reserve for potential clients that I¡¯m not sure of. I¡¯d sized her up and figured out her gray and crimson outfit must have set her back a couple of hundred in some exclusive shop, so she clearly had money. Even so, money wasn¡¯t everything. There were just some potential clients you didn¡¯t want anything to do with. I had a hunch she might fall into that category.


    ¡°I have a case for you,¡± she continued. ¡°It is perhaps a little out of your usual line, I suppose. A party has stolen something from me, and I want it back.¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    There it was. Plain and simple. Still, I wasn¡¯t entirely sold.


    ¡°Well, I do other things than divorce work, if that¡¯s what you think,¡± I protested warily, ¡°I do occasionally recover stolen goods, as long as it doesn¡¯t involve breaking and entering. The police around here tend to frown on that, and there¡¯s my license to consider¡­¡±


    She cut me off with a laugh that drifted up and down the scale like some exotic butterfly wafted on a summer breeze. It was a pleasant sound, but somehow it didn¡¯t allay my concerns. It was probably just my imagination, but I felt like there was something unpleasant behind the laughter.


    Be practical, Lee, a greedy little voice that lives somewhere in the back of my mind insisted. Think of the overdue rent.


    With effort, I shrugged off my unease as being due to my concern that the job might skirt the illegal. She evidently picked up on my unease.


    ¡°I assure you there will be no legal complications.¡±


    I stubbed out the now-dead remnants of my cigarette in the ashtray, and wished that Masaka was there. Masaka was a sort of very informal partner -- more of an unpaid informant -- a young woman who might have been Japanese or Chinese, who generally appeared from nowhere to bring me some new case that I would have been better off without.


    So far, that had amounted to he being confronted with eerily glowing tarot cards and a demonic summoning and, a mere month afterwards, a reincarnated and extremely hostile deity. She was an almost ethereal presence in my world, drifting in and out with no way to call on her when I needed help. On more than one occasion I¡¯d wondered if, in spite of outward appearances, she was even human. Masaka, however, did possess one profoundly useful skill. She could easily read people beyond the facade they projected. Me? Not so much.


    ¡°What I wish you to recover,¡± he continued, ¡°is a little statue carved from violet stone. It is roughly a foot in height and nearly as wide.¡±


    ¡°It being?¡± I interrupted.


    She favored me with a dazzling smile, revealing small, perfect teeth that practically shone in the cloud-generated gloom.


    ¡°It¡¯s an artist¡¯s interpretation of a little¡­devil. Some obscure fetish belonging to some tribe or other that goes back a few thousand years. Have you ever heard of a toboda?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t say that I have,¡± I admitted before I attempted to turn the discussion to more practical matters. Tribal gods I had no use for.


    ¡°Do you at least have a photo of the statue? It¡¯d help considerably if I knew what to look for.¡±


    She shrugged -- her smooth shoulders rising and falling maybe an inch. It was as if my question had all the validity of asking her whether her favorite color was yellow or blue.


    ¡°Regrettably, I was going to have it photographed for insurance purposes,¡± she explained, ¡°but it was stolen the night before my appointment with the photographer. The best I can do is assure you that you will know it when you see it. It is quite distinctive. You, ah, might want to write this down.¡±


    She waited patiently while I twitched open the long center drawer of my desk and fished around among the myriad pencil stubs for one that still had a point. I didn¡¯t want to pull the drawer out too far. There was no point in her seeing the clutter of crushed, empty cigarette packs, peanut wrappers, and other trash that I¡¯d stuffed in there, meaning to deal with them at some future point in time.


    I located a reasonably intact pencil and, not having a notebook handy, located a tattered handout menu from a new seafood place down the street and prepared to take notes on the grease-spotted back. The lady looked annoyed that it had taken me so long to get things into a semblance of order. I fully expected her to conclude she¡¯d made a mistake and sashay back out into the torrent. She didn¡¯t. Instead, she favored me with a few scant details.


    ¡°The missing piece is composed of flattened spheres. The widest is the midsection, which bears some partially-effaced inscriptions, presumably in a lost language. There is no need for you to concern yourself with them.


    ¡°The head continues the overall motif, being squat and wide. What features it might have had have seemingly been worn away through the ages, though there is a hint of three eyes. The lowest bulge is meant to imply crossed legs.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like an evil buddha,¡± I remarked without glancing up from my scribbling.


    That earned me a brief glance, and I unconsciously straightened in my chair at the force of it. The glower almost had the effect of a slap to my face. She hadn¡¯t appreciated the comment one bit. A moment later, she was fishing in her purse, her eyes again downcast. ¡®Sheathed¡¯, came closest to being an adequate description. Those eyes now reminded me of the twin barrels of a shotgun.


    ¡°Here,¡± she instructed in a brittle tone, ¡°is a paper with the address where you are to deliver the statue, as well as where you will find it. It is currently in an antiques shop operate by a mister Jovanovic.¡±


    She spelled the name out for me.


    ¡°If at all possible, I would like the statue returned tonight. I leave the details to you. Feel free to be creative, but move quickly. If you cannot deliver by tomorrow at noon at the latest, I shall have to seek other assistance.¡±


    This smelled, even if you tried to overlook the obvious, which I didn¡¯t. First, I felt if I was being coerced. Too, what she was proposing sounded more than a little short of the classic definition of legal. At least it could very easily lane me on extremely shaky ground.


    ¡°Look,¡± I pointed out, ¡®if you know where to find it, why not just confront this Javanovic? Threaten him with the law. I¡¯m pretty sure you¡¯d have a valid case, so all you¡¯d really need is to find the local beat cop and bring him along. I¡¯m sure he¡¯d be glad of the chance of making a pinch.¡±


    She didn¡¯t even bother to answer -- just pulled herself up off the chair like some grand waterfall suddenly running in reverse, and headed for the door. The tin bell over the door jangled as she passed out into the now-waning storm. It seemed to me that the sound contained a mocking tone.


    I sat back and deliberated the previous ten minute, finally deciding that, given my choice, I¡¯d have rather closed up shop for the day and invested a few hours in a haircut and a trashy novel a previous client bad left behind when they¡¯d learned my rates and promptly bolted for greener pastures. Yeah, there was something distinctly risky about her proposition. She¡¯d seeming left the possibility of breaking and entering open, but I¡¯d had the impression that it was expected if friendly persuasion failed. That didn¡¯t go down well with me. My instincts said to move on with my life.


    Still, she¡¯d pitched a couple of items onto my blotter as she¡¯d risen, and they were mighty persuasive. I¡¯d always considered Ben Franklin as a dear, if distant, friend, so I figured I owed him an hour of my tine.


    The address she¡¯d given me was a good starting point. At least I had something concrete to go by. The two fifties accompanying it looked even better. Even if I didn¡¯t lay hands on her purple whatsis, I had a pretty decent retainer in-hand, and I wasn¡¯t big on issuing refunds. It looked like good times lay ahead.


    In retrospect, I probably should have paid more attention to that skeptical little bell.

 TWO

    II


    Slipping the bills under the blotter, I contemplated the neatly lettered address where I was supposed to deliver the toboda. After a moment, I mentally placed the location. I¡¯d passed by it once or twice, strictly on business, as I had neither the money nor the pedigree to enter its pristine marbled environs. It was a high-class hotel located on the far side of the city. The overall impression I¡¯d had in passing was that white tie and tails were required for entry. If my hunch was right, delivering the statue might prove to be a bigger challenge than acquiring it.


    Jovanovic¡¯s shop was another matter, and I scratched my head for maybe five minutes as I tried to place it. I¡¯d thought I knew New Orleans pretty well, but for the life of me I couldn¡¯t recall an antique shop by that name in that quarter. There were one or two notable ones in New Orleans, but that section of the city was pretty much off the maps for wealthy sightseers and the better local families. Most of the shops in that neighborhood were limping along on even flimsier finances than I was at the moment.


    The thing to do, I reluctantly decided as I cracked the door and noticed that the cloud cover overhead was, if anything, thicker and darker than before, was to check out the shop from the outside. I wanted a strong first impression before I ventured into the figurative lion¡¯s den. Then I amended that thought. The first thing to do was try for a little more information on, and hopefully a picture of, a toboda. In my experience, that meant only one logical starting point. I was going to pay a visit to Lucius Cowell, aka The Professor.


    Lucius¡¯s past is a little muddled. No, make that a lot. It seems likely that he worked in academia for some time, though I haven¡¯t yet been able to find out at what university. Not that I pry, Lucius being an informational gift horse. At any rate, he deserves the title, as he possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of obscure  and esoteric information, fueled daily by the contents of his slightly disreputable bookstore.


    Unlike his brethren in the trade, Lucius actually reads the books in his charge and, as a consequence, is frequently my first stop when I need information on some little-known topic.


    I found him parked, as usual, behind the swaybacked front counter, his thin beak of a nose deep in a heavy tome written in some obscure language. The pages were heavily discolored and the typeface was badly faded. It might have been Latin, but it might just as likely have been ancient Sanskrit. Whatever the language, it was clearly giving him no trouble, as he was flipping pages like a dervish.


    I pulled up a rickety stool crowned with a cracked leather cushion, and sat down. Then I waited. And waited. It can take the Professor several minutes to return to the land of the living, once he¡¯s in his deep study mode. After a while, his head came up and his eyes focused on me.


    ¡°What brings you to my emporium of knowledge this bright and gloomy morning?¡± he inquired.


    I produced the folded menu bearing my scant notes. It took a moment to dredge up the name of the statue, as the greasy paper had defied the pencil in spots.


    ¡°Professor,¡± I finally managed, ¡°have you ever heard of a¡­toboda?¡±


    I expected a performance.  Nine times out of ten, he¡¯d lean back, half-close his eyes, and maybe massage his pointed jaw with one hand while he drummed the fingers of the other hand on the counter. If I¡¯d asked a real poser, he might also start humming atonally while he ran my request through his venerable frontal lobes. Not today. Lucius got right to the point.


    ¡°That¡¯s odd,¡± he countered. ¡°You are the second person today to inquire about tobodas. Why the sudden interest? Is the city declaring a special holiday to honor the esoteric?¡±


    I let that slide past. You ask a crazy question, you can pretty well expect a crazy answer. At least with Lucius. And, at the moment, I was more interested in there being another seeker of knowledge asking for info on the thing.


    ¡°Someone else came looking for information?¡±


    The Professor¡¯s head bobbed enthusiastically. His wire-rimmed glasses slid down his bet of  nose at the gesture. Unfazed, he fielded them with the practiced skill of a veteran third baseman and returned them to their usual position.


    ¡°Looking for a book on the subject, to be precise. However, so far as I know, no book was ever written concerning the wretched little hoodoo. It¡¯s only mentioned in a few paragraphs, in half a dozen books. To my knowledge, of course, but you may take my word for it.¡±


    I raised placatory hands.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take your word for it, Lucius Tell me, was it a woman in red?¡±


    The Professor smiled faintly and his eyes briefly closed. I let it ride too. He was presumably reliving some cozy moment in his younger days when there¡¯d been ¡®someone special¡¯ in his life. She¡¯d probably worn red as well. I briefly wondered what had happened to that relationship. As far as I know, Crowell was a bachelor.


    The Professor returned to the present with a sigh.


    ¡°No. It was a short fella¡¯. Burly but knee-high to a flea. That being a facetious comparison, of course.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± I acceded.


    Then got things rolling again.


    ¡°So, maybe there¡¯s a picture of this thing in one of these books of yours? I¡¯ve got a vague description, but it¡¯s basically useless.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Sudden interest glowed in the Professor¡¯s watery eyes.


    ¡°May I take it this is in relation to some new case?¡± he inquired eagerly. ¡°Has Masaka brought something interesting to your attention?¡±


    God forbid, I thought in instinctive alarm at the very thought.


    I managed a sheepish, lopsided grin. The Professor was the only other person who knew of the mysterious girl¡¯s occasional visits, and I strongly suspected that he¡¯d devoted considerable effort to determining what species she might belong to. I had a hunch that he¡¯d had no better luck in that department than I had.


    ¡°No,¡± I admitted, ¡°not this time. I had a lady in the office about ten minutes ago. She spun me a story about having a statue of this thing that someone lifted. Evidently, it¡¯s in an antique shop, and she wants me to get it back for her.¡±


    Now the familiar finger tapping started, though he limited it to just an index finger beating cadence on the faded pages of the open book before him.  faint cloud of dust rose from said pages.


    ¡°A statue? That is most interesting, and rare if true. Any descriptions of this creature are largely apocryphal. It was allegedly so evil that virtually no images were created, for fear of increasing its¡¯ hold on the cult. Possibly on the world itself.¡±


    He shrugged, then added, ¡°But of course, in those days, you have to understand that their concept of the world was¡­ah¡­somewhat limited.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t in the mood for a lecture on ancient history. Other than on a very specific aspect.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I persisted, ¡°I¡¯m sure. Now, what can you tell me about this thing?¡±


    If his lips hadn¡¯t been paper-thin, he¡¯d probably have pursed them as he considered the question.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want to be quoted,¡± he finally remarked in a subdued tone, ¡°as this is largely speculation. I¡¯m connecting a very few recorded bits of lore with a lot of guesswork.¡±


    I scowled. This reticence on his part was unusual. I decided to nudge him a little. Hoping he¡¯d get to the point. After all, I was on a deadline.


    ¡°I just want to know anything that might be useful.¡± I explained. ¡°You¡¯ve already basically told me the figure is rare. I guessed as much when I started out a hundred bucks to the good. I¡¯m more interested in finding out if there¡¯s competition I might run up against. Like maybe some dedicated cult that might also be out to recover it. I don¡¯t need or want that kind of trouble.¡±


    The Professor shrugged. That was no concern of his. He had his book shop and wouldn¡¯t be the one out there on the front line, so he could afford to take a broad view on the situation.


    ¡°Maybe, maybe not. Probably not. I¡¯ve said the toboda is a very obscure thing, so I doubt any sort of organized worship would be unlikely. I can tell you that the wretched little thing was reportedly a bit of a mixed blessing for anyone having any dealings with it.¡±


    ¡°¡¯A¡¯ toboda? You mean there were more than one of them?¡±


    He shifted uneasily, then shrugged.


    ¡°Oh, dozens, and they were very nasty little beasts. Worship tended to be a dicey prospect. If you encountered one and didn¡¯t pay what it considered due homage, you would meet a quick and unpleasant end. Even if you did pay it proper homage, things were just as likely to turn nasty. There were reportedly very convoluted and strict rules of conduct were imposed upon interacting with them. Imposed by the tobodas themselves, and they were evidently highly mercurial beings.¡±


    I managed to laugh that off. After all, aside from a disconcerting client, this looked to be a pretty standard job. There was no reason for things to get weird, the way my last couple of cases had. I was just to recover stolen property and return it for the rest of my fee, and I planned on that being outrageously high.


    I¡¯d visit the indicated shop, get a feel for the lay of the land and the dealer, feel out his reactions to a casual inquiry, and maybe do a little light breaking and entering if it came to that. As a rule, I steered a straight and narrow course, but for the kind of money-in-hand and the implication that I¡¯d be recovering stolen goods, I could bend the rules just a little.


    First, though, I wanted to hear the other side of the story from the shopkeeper. Maybe, just maybe, I was being played for a patsy. I still had that rinky feeling about my evasive client.


    I had no reason to doubt Lucius¡¯ reasonable accuracy in his speculation. I¡¯d once gotten a look at the back room of the book shop. It amounted to a walk-in vault that would have done a bank proud. Foot-thick, case-hardened steel walls and a door so hefty I was surprised that, given his wiry build, he could open and close it. The vault was where he kept his rarest books and, so far as I know, though the book shop had several break-ins, he¡¯d never lost a single volume.


    Whatever he was basing his offerings on the toboda upon, it was doubtlessly tucked away in the safe. That meant it was of singular importance and value in Lucius¡¯ eyes. That knowledge lent his speculation a degree of validity.


    ¡°Is there anything specific I should know about this toboda?¡± I asked, as I turned to leave. ¡°Anything that might concern me?¡±


    The resulting silence caused me to halt in my tracks. I turned, to find the Professor was again lost in one of his states of deep cogitation. After a moment, he was back with an additional bit of information.


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know much more due to some obscurity in the historical records,¡± he offered apologetically, ¡°but I do know they were particularly strong attractors.¡±


    I blinked, completely lost.


    ¡°They were what?¡±


    The Professor shook his head, evidently trying to find the right words to explain himself I layman¡¯s terms.


    ¡°Let me try to put it in contemporary terms. Oh, what would be an apt comparison?¡±


    Ten seconds of frantic finger drumming ensued before he brightened.


    ¡°Think of Al Capone. Yes, Capone is an excellent example! By which, I mean a toboda was rather like a gangster. Yes, that¡¯s precisely it. Tobodas reportedly possessed a marked penchant for controlling lesser supernatural creatures. That was part of what made them so formidable. If you went against just one of the creatures, you were apt to find yourself confronted with half a dozen or more enemies of all levels of wickedness that they called up in response.¡±


    Capone? Really? That was the best he could do? I considered telling him that his idea of ¡®contemporary¡¯ was a couple of decades off, but thought better of it. After all, he¡¯d only been trying to help.


    Lucius managed an apologetic half-smile.


    ¡°Not, I suppose,¡± he remarked in a crestfallen tone, ¡°very reassuring.¡±


    ¡°No, Professor, you did fine. Thanks.¡±


    I hit the street, hands stuffed in my jacket pockets and my head whirling with vague but disturbing toboda trivia.  Okay, I was basically back at square one. I still had no clear idea what to look for beyond basically a flattened stack of evil purple pancakes with writing on its middle and a sinister smirk on what passed for a face. If I worked really hard, I could consider that a positive. The negatives of the case? Fanatic cultists coming into the mix were unlikely but not an impossibility. I¡¯d have to keep an eye out for any wide-eyed passersby.


    Ruthless collectors were a more realistic issue, but how bad could that make things? Then I recalled my last couple of cases and, decided maybe I¡¯d better turn my thoughts to more pleasant topics while I sought out Javanovik¡¯s shop.


    I headed for the bus stop. What I¡¯d find there was pretty much up in the air, but I had a nasty suspicion that trouble would be a sizable part of it. There was, I reflected, at least one good thing about the last half hour. The rain had stopped.

 THREE

    III


    The dictionary defines a succubus as a supernatural creature with an affinity for socially awkward behavior, or words to that extent. There¡¯s a lot of other content about ¡®devouring souls¡¯ and ¡®eternal damnation¡¯, but you get the idea. The last, the very last thing you¡¯d expect to find in twentieth century New Orleans would be a temptress out to eat a few souls. Still, I had to admit the definition came close to covering my impression of my latest paying client.


    I mulled Emelia Korvas over in my mind as the bus trundled merrily along. Taking into account The Professor¡¯s inferences, maybe she was one of those potentially dangerous hard-core collectors. Not that any of the collector¡¯s mania made the slightest sense to me. Especially not when it came to statues of testy demons. I mean, there were a lot healthier things to collect, and most people make do with those without getting overly nasty.


    I know a councilman who goes into raptures over postage stamps. Coin collecting also makes token sense. There¡¯s just something special about money, no matter whose face is stamped on one side. But statues of little-known, bloodthirsty creatures? You had to be a few bricks shy of a load to go in for things like that.


    Given the rundown nature of the surrounding neighborhood, I¡¯d fully expected Jovanovic¡¯s shop to be a weather-worn storefront with a couple of cracked panes in the front window and a few dusty knick-knacks posted strategically on display. I was, pardon the expression, dead wrong. It stood on a street corner, and looked like something out of a fairy tale. Imagine one of those ornate Black Forest cuckoo clocks, and you¡¯d come damned close.


    The wooden fa?ade had been painstakingly brushed down with some sealant, so that none of the street grime that adhered to the other shops lining the street clung to it. Someone had also sunk what must have been a small fortune into commissioning all kinds of ornate woodwork trim to decorate it. The front door and broad display window were surrounded by heavy-relief scrollwork depicting bunches of grapes, a peasant¡¯s wagon piled sky high in hay, and the usual Heidi trimmings. It was a little like taking an unexpected, free trip to the idyllic Alps.


    Then I got a closer look at the detailing that had been added higher up, between the broad display window and the peaked roof. At that, I got that old, familiar unsettled feeling in my gut. Here, the decorations got contrastingly darker. There were a couple of hunched figures that I figured were probably trolls. These had red stones set into their bulging, carved eyes. Off to one side was another ornate detail that tickled a half-forgotten memory but which I couldn¡¯t place for a minute. Then it hit me.


    After I got back from the war, and before I finally settled in the Big Easy, I¡¯d had a yearning to travel. That was normal, after spending the better part of a year in the trenches. I¡¯d moved around a lot, but strictly in the ¡®States. I¡¯d put in a little time working as a farm hand in Oklahoma, spent six months in a cannery in Maine, and even tried my hand at looking for gold in California. Overall, it had helped me forget a lot of unpleasantness, but I¡¯d wanted something more exotic.


    One of the options I¡¯d briefly considered, before I got a look at the price tag and my practical side took over, was Hawaii. The colorful literature the clerk in the booking office shoved in my face had looked enticing, and it definitely was exotic to the mind of a West Texas man. I could see myself settling down to sun on some distant beach to plan out the rest of my life.


    One particular image that had particularly struck me was a painting of a squat, grimacing statue surrounded by palm trees. The helpful gent had explained that it was a ¡®tiki.¡¯ Not that he had the faintest idea what that was. It just was something the locals carved now and then and gosh, weren¡¯t they rustic? I agreed, and let my eyes travel down to the price of the proposed tour.


    The only part of the price I could easily afford was the zero at the end of the quote. As my budget pretty much limited me to wherever I could hitch a ride to, Hawaii was definitely very much out of the picture. The helpful man behind the counter had abruptly gotten significantly less attentive.


    The central image of this weird diorama resembled one of those tikis in a particularly foul mood. Maybe someone had stolen its buried treasure or carved their initials on a family member. It definitely wasn¡¯t something I¡¯d have want to meet in a dark alley. Overall, the carved decorations gave me a funny feeling of disquiet. With some effort, I shrugged off the eerie impression and entered the shop. At least I started to.


    Masaka abruptly materialized at my side as I was reaching for the worked brass knob. I hadn¡¯t heard her approach, but then what was new about that? The question in my mind was how she¡¯d known where to find me. I somehow couldn¡¯t see her haunting this rundown part of the city. Looking delicate as a Chinese doll and dolled up in silk, she¡¯d have attracted anyone looking to stage a quick holdup. Not, I suspected, that the result would have ended up being what they might have had in mind.


    ¡°I will accompany you.¡±


    I wanted to feel annoyed at what was, after all, an intrusion. I¡¯d planned a fast in and out with maybe one or two questions, and then back to the office. Somehow, though, her being along for the ride seemed reassuring. I levered the door open and stepped aside to allow her to proceed me.


    ¡°Any particular reason?¡± I inquired in an undertone, as she preceded me.


    The question, which to my mind was entirely reasonable, garnered no response. Her serene expression reflected no concern, annoyance, or any other emotion. I had half a mind to pursue the inquiry but, after a quick parting glance up at the carved grotesques above the doorway, decided against it. Masaka, as I¡¯d discovered, never did anything on a whim. There was probably a good reason for her appearance. That would have to do by way of an explanation. Given my first impression of the place, it might be just as well that I had company.


    I¡¯d never actually visited an antique shop before, but I¡¯d developed what I¡¯d figured was a pretty good mental image of what I¡¯d find there. There would be tables set up to display all kinds of tchotchkes, and probably a bunch of gilt-framed paintings on the wall. The shopkeeper would be a little hunched man in his sixties with thick glasses and an ingratiating way about him that belied a canny and avaricious mind.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    What I got seemed more like the inside of a modern drug store. There was absolutely no sense of organized clutter, and there were no gilt-framed overlooked masterpieces hanging on the walls. Instead, there were white-framed display cases lined up along each wall. Darned if he hadn¡¯t put indirect lighting behind the glass front of each one of these, the better to highlight what lay within. Or, more to the point, what squatted therein.


    Out of curiosity, I ambled over to inspect one of the cases. I was surprised to see what I had assumed to be white painted wood was actually porcelain-fronted metal. The cases must have been nearly air-tight. They also looked to have a peculiarly strong dual lock on each. Below the expected keyhole, there was a second, smaller one. I frowned at that. It looked as if picking my way into a case, if it came to that, would take considerable time. Never a good thing in the burglary trade.


    Then there were the contents of the cases. So far, I hadn¡¯t seen the object of my visit, but there were about a dozen equally disturbing things lurking behind the glass fronts, as I ranged along the wall. It was rapidly becoming evident that Jovanovic catered to a very specific clientele. This wasn¡¯t your average ¡®grandma¡¯s favorite lamp¡¯ kind of antique shop.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡±


    It was a deep bullfrog of a voice and flat, with nary an intonation or accent. I turned to regard the speaker and got a considerable surprise. In light of his name, I¡¯d expected to see maybe a Slav, but Javanovik looked more Oriental.


    He stood maybe five six and was extremely muscular. Black hair was slicked down on his scalp though a couple of stubborn tufts defied whatever scented pomade he was using, to jut up at awkward angles. They vaguely reminded me of a devil¡¯s horns. One aide of my mouth twitched involuntarily. Putting on my best ¡®innocent¡¯ face, I continued my appraisal of the man.


    Though he wore his conservative blue suit slightly loose, his overall bodily contours were detectable. He might well have been a topnotch boxer in a previous life. But was now tending toward lard. Hard packed lard, but there was still the impression of an almost tangible decline. His eyes were concealed behind pale violet-tinted glasses. My overall impression was of a seedy individual who was trying to pull off an air of class.


    Naturally enough, he was addressing Masaka and not yours truly. In my twenty-dollar suit, I was clearly too average to be of any real interest. I decided to sit back and see where this would lead, before putting in my two cents worth. I wondered what just she¡¯d say in response.


    Interestingly, as his bulbous head swiveled, I caught a glimpse of his eyes above the tinted lenses. They were of a somewhat familiar silver-grey. I briefly wondered if my client and he had some shared parentage. Maybe I was smack in the middle of a family squabble.


    ¡°I am looking for something unique,¡± Masaka stated in her usual controlled tone, ¡°a figurine of a toboda. I assume you know what that is?¡±


    Classic Masaka. No embellishments to trip her up. Just the facts as she wanted to present them. As I¡¯d expected, the statement created a bit of stir in Javanovik¡¯s distinctive eyes. For a minute, he looked everywhere but at Masaka. I could almost hear the wheels frantically turning in his blunt head.


    ¡°Well?¡± she persisted serenely.


    The pause as he recovered his composure was so thick you could have cut it with even a dull knife. Javanovik shifted from one foot to another and raised a hand to straighten the glasses across the broad bridge of his nose. Or maybe to cover his expression. I noted one finger was slightly deformed. It was bent to one aide at the first knuckle and looked to have been badly burnt at some prior time. He had attempted to cover this by sporting an oversized gold-and-amethyst ring on the finger. Not a great strategy, as the ring actually focused attention on the damaged finger.


    When the hand came down, he was again composed, though I sensed an edge of wariness behind his reply.


    ¡°Ah, yes. A very obscure fetish. I doubt there are more than two or three such figures in all the world. I am sorry. I¡¯m afraid I wouldn¡¯t know where you could obtain such a thing.¡±


    Masaka remained on the attack.


    ¡°You are certain?¡±


    Javanovik gave a theatrical shrug.


    ¡°Positively. Even if it were possible, the cost would be prohibitive, running well into eight figures.¡±


    I decided this might be the moment to break in.


    ¡°So, you don¡¯t know of any way the lady can get this¡­thing of hers?¡±


    His attention reluctantly shifted to me. Javanovik manufactured an expression that was every inch the definition of ¡®apologetic regret¡¯. I doubted Bogart or Claude Rains could have done a better job of acting.


    ¡°I am afraid not, sir. Perhaps you would care for something similar? I have an exquisite two-hundred-year-old effigy of Yama, from Tibet. Or a lovely statue of Mahakala, the Great Black One? It is a particularly beautiful one.


    I mentally nodded at the so-slight emphasis on that ¡®sir.¡¯ He had me pretty much pegged as a low-level flunky but as tolerating me s I was with Maska. Maybe she kept me around to fend off panhandlers do minor chores around the mansion. That show of attitude made my planned transgression all that much easier on my conscience.


    ¡°This¡­Mahakala,¡± Masaka asked, ¡°was a particularly vengeful deity as I recall?¡±


    Javanovik folded slightly at the waist in what I interpreted as being an attempt at a deferential bow.


    ¡°I see madam is well schooled on the subject. Yes. Most unpleasant.¡±


    He positively grieved when Masaka left the shop without purchasing one of his eldritch horrors or exchanging further pleasantries. He¡¯d probably expected her to ¡®ooh¡¯ and ¡®ahhh¡¯ for a while, then try dickering for a better price on an item or two. But that was Masaka. She wasn¡¯t one for pretense or wasted effort. I suspected she¡¯d gotten what she¡¯d come for, though what that might be was beyond me.


    ¡°So,¡± I ventured, ¡°what did we learn from all that?¡±


    ¡°You got an inside look at the shop, which is what I presume brought you there in the first place. I determined that the man is a fool with no significant knowledge of his wares. Mahakala is generally accepted as a benevolent deity.


    ¡°I won¡¯t ask how you know that.¡±


    Masaka flowed to a stop, her red kimono issuing a slightly sibilant protest at the sudden action.


    ¡°There is a distinctly disturbing undercurrent to the shop,¡± she cautioned. ¡°Do you seriously intend to return there?¡±


    Damn. She obviously knew all about the case, and she hadn¡¯t even been into the office that morning. Once again, I wondered just who or what she was.


    ¡°Well, yes,¡± I admitted weakly. ¡°I¡¯ve already been paid  nice retainer, and the landlord is threatening to set up housekeeping in my office if the rent is any later this month. It¡¯s two weeks overdue, if you want to put too fine a point on it. So. yes,  coming back at a more convenient time is definitely in the cards,¡±


    ¡°I would not return after dark,¡± she advised. ¡°I sensed something very peculiar there.¡±


    I cast an admittedly apprehensive glance back at the carved front of the shop.


    ¡°Well, for what I have in mind,¡± I admitted, ¡°I pretty much have to. I don¡¯t think I saw anything resembling a toboda, so he probably has the statue in a back room. If there¡¯s a back door, I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll have to worry about anyone spotting me. There aren¡¯t likely to be many people out after dark around here. And anyway, I tried for other options. I suggested to the client that she go to the authorities about the statue. She balked.¡±


    ¡°Predictably.¡±


    I checked the street which, even close to noon, was nearly deserted. I swear I didn¡¯t look away for more than five seconds, but when I returned my attention to Masaka, she was nowhere to be seen. In a way, her knack of appearing and vanishing without warning was as creepy as the things I¡¯d seen in the shop. But given a choice, I¡¯d stick with her familiar form of weirdness.


    IV

 FOUR

    IV


    By six thirty, the overhanging clouds had emptied themselves of a second, fresh deluge, but had evidently decided not to move on. The sun was easing toward the horizon, and was painting the underside of a dense cloud cover a sullen amber. While the murky color probably wasn¡¯t an omen, it felt to me as if it should have been. Then again, my frame of mind was already running toward the uneasy. I had several pressing matters on my mind.


    First off, I wasn¡¯t really in the breaking and entering business. Even granted the statue was stolen from my client, my stealing it back put me in the same class as Javanovik. The police would conveniently ignore any side issues and unerringly home in on me, no matter what I tried to tell them.


    Secondly, I was worried that I might run into the shopkeeper. It  possible that he had rooms over the shop. In the low rent district, that wasn¡¯t uncommon. A surprise confrontation could turn nasty in any number of ways, not the least being that he might bring a gun to the festivities. Plus, frankly, the d¨¦cor of the shop was already working on my nerves. I was in no way looking forward to a return visit.


    In the end, I managed to distract my inner demons and set out for my destination the minute it got dark. I have a friend who¡¯s played several of the jazz clubs where I occasionally sit in Lie most sidemen of my acquaintance, he led a spartan life. However, he did own a rattletrap of a truck that could be had for gas and a few dollars.


    Luck was with me. He proved to be home with one of his periodic bad head colds, and was in no mood to haggle. Figuring half a tank would get me there and back, and that I¡¯d have time to top off the tank in the morning, I accepted the reluctantly proffered key and headed for Javanovik¡¯s little shop of horrors.


    I played it safe and stopped half a block down the poorly lit cross street. Prior experience had taught me that it was a good idea to park far enough away from your destination that a passing beat cop wouldn¡¯t draw a logical connection. On more than one very early adventure, I¡¯m made that critical mistake and had ended up breakfasting at the city¡¯s expanse when my thoroughly honorable efforts had been grossly misinterpreted.


    Conversely, you should still park close enough to allow for a quick escape if needed. Given sufficient distance, the average man in blue, his head filled with rosy visions of congratulations from the higher-ups, could build up quite a head of steam in a heated pursuit.


    It must have been the beat man¡¯s night off, or maybe I¡¯d showed up between shifts. At any rate I didn¡¯t see a single sign of life as I strolled down the block and ducked into the deeply rutted alley behind the antique shop. After stumbling over several discarded tin cans, I finally threw up my mental arms and resorted to using my flashlight. As quiet as the area had seemed to be, who¡¯d notice?


    The back of the shop was a marked contrast to the front, being faced with dingy stucco that might once have been white but which now reminded me of the watery dregs you¡¯d find in the bottom of a can of beans. The door was heavy wood, with no thin, helpful ornamental panels that you could pop out with a screwdriver or jimmy. Oh, well. That would have made too much noise anyway. I focused my attention on the lock.


    I figured luck was on my side for once. The lock was  unremarkable, probably dating back to the early ¡®twenties. It also showed signs of extensive rust, so the inner workings were probably also in poor condition. Given that and the implication that there were no tricky tumblers or other nasty surprises to cope with. It should be easy to pick.


    Casting an uneasy glance at the dimly visible rectangle that marked the end of the alleyway and, for some odd reason, at the overhanging roof, I set to work. It was a simple mechanism. I just had to snag an inner bolt and twist it out of the socket in the door frame. The whole operation took me all of ninety seconds, but then I was out of practice.


    There was a large back room, just as I¡¯d figured. Unfortunately, it was close-packed with piles of opened, straw-filled boxes and poorly stacked crates. Just getting inside and closing the door behind me was a bit of a struggle. There was no way around it. I¡¯d have to risk a light if I wanted to get a clear look around.


    In retrospect, I remember thinking that maybe that wouldn¡¯t be so bad. After all, if there was anyone still in the shop, or within earshot in an overed room, they¡¯d have responded to the clamor by now. Too, so long as I limited my search to the back room, there¡¯d be virtually no chance of my light being visible through the wide front window.


    I swept the beam around with some degree of satisfaction. So much for my fears of finding an invulnerable vault on a par with The Professor¡¯s. The room was maybe fifteen by fifteen, and looked more like a poorly kept warehouse than a place where you¡¯d store a treasure trove of relics. A few cobwebs festooned the corners. There was dust everywhere -- even on the crates.


    That seemed kind of strange. I checked the floor. Not a bit of packing straw to be seen. It was all neatly crammed into the opened cartons. The only thing on the floor was dust, and it lay thick. Some of it had fetched up against the bottoms of the crates in inch-deep drifts. There were no footprints in the dry patina. How, I wondered, did you run a business without going into the back now and then? Especially if you kept your most valuable relics tucked away there.


    Then I discovered something intriguing. In wending my way through the maze, I bumped one of the staggered piles of crates. Fortunately, that particular stack was only two boxes high, so I was able to stabilize the uppermost one before it toppled to the floor. In doing do, I got a good feel of the heft of the crate. Just to confirm my impression, I gave it a tentative shake. The crate, though it looked to be nailed tightly shut, seemed to be empty. I tried a several more crates with similar results. My earlier impression had been correct. Javanovik seemed to run a most unusual business.


    I switched off the flashlight and stood in the darkness, thinking it through. Maybe the store was a front for a wholesale smuggling operation. It was possible that he took in bits of questionable merchandise and hawked them to the gullible and the wealthy, keeping the back room this way in order to mislead anyone who might enter. The fire inspector would quality and, in this neighborhood, it was likely that the cops might occasionally pass through, searching for some fleeing fugitive who might have sought refuge there. As long as nobody else was as clumsy as I was, things would probably be fine.


    I liked the idea. It seemed like the most likely explanation, and I couldn¡¯t think of any others. Still, I decided to give the back room a quick once-over before moving into the front of the shop. By this time, my nerves were decidedly on edge. I had an unpleasant  history with cluttered places. There had been the Monk¡¯s apartment which, the last time I¡¯d visited it, had been a mess and had a contained a demonic visitor that had done its level best to kill me. Then there had been an office in a cursed casino and a bell jar of satanic dice that I¡¯d rather not think about.


    After ten minutes of nosing around, I came up with nothing. That seemed to confirm my hunch that the surrounding messy display was a sham. Okay, now I¡¯d have to check out the sales floor. Maybe I¡¯d missed spotting the toboda when Javanovik had shown up and distracted me. Hopefully there¡¯d be enough light coming through the front window for me to be able to navigate. I¡¯d use the flashlight sparingly. I cautiously edged into the main sales floor.


    I counted eleven of the glass-fronted cases along the far well, and another six against the rear one. The way I saw it, I¡¯d do best by starting at the rear and then move forward. That should at least lessen the odds of my being spotted by anyone who passed along the sidewalk who might be attracted to the assorted items in the showcase ns decide to engage in a little rubbernecking.


    I had never realized there was so much ugliness in the world. Case to case, I lost count of the little horrors at twenty-nine. They ran the gamut from six inches, priced at a ¡®mere¡¯ three hundred fifty to a foot in height. The big ones were frequently more heavily detailed and started at five thousand. You¡¯d think, with a single item commanding that kind of price, some enterprising thief would have already hit the shop. Then again, assuming they might have dropped in during business hours to scope things out, their deciding to try something safer -- like maybe a bank or two -- made complete sense.


    I was on my eighth case when one of the figures on the far side of the glass caught my eyes. I could have sworn it hadn¡¯t been there earlier, but there was the toboda, half-screened by two larger sculptures. I risked the light again, shielding it with a cupped hand, and instantly regretted the decision. The surrounding shadows of the unlit room had previously served to render the statue somewhat vague. Now I picked up on a number of unsettling little details.


    If anything, the mysterious Miss or Mrs. Korvas had understated the ugliness of the toboda. It was composed of flattened discs, sure, but there was an unsettling flabbiness to those sections, as if it had just eaten, and eaten well. The material it had been carved from was also a little odd. I¡¯d imagined it would probably be some shiny, gemlike stone but instead it had a flat, matte look. The face was something out of a nightmare. There was something wrong about the set of the jaw, and the three wicked little eyes -- which resembled tiny obsidian beads half-concealed by angular pouches of fat -- seemed to promise vengeance if an unbeliever touched it. Frankly, as a profound non-believer, I didn¡¯t relish the idea.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Shrugging off the feeling, I turned my attention to the dual lock. After a couple of moments¡¯ contemplation, I decided that the upper lock would present no real problems. The second, significantly smaller keyhole was another thing. It would make manipulating a pick a lot harder. That was when I heard the faint sound of voices.


    In an instant, I had the light out and was crouched as low as I could get. A minute later, a pair of silhouettes passed across the window. Apparently, a couple of locals returning from some bar, considering how unsteady they seemed to be on their feet.


    I held my ungainly pose for five minutes before returning my attention to the case. As I¡¯d figured, the main lock, for all the metal surrounding it, was no big deal. I heard the internal bolt click back in under a minute.


    The smaller keyhole was another matter. For one thing, I now got a clearer look at it, and I could see the key that fit it was unusual. The slit executed a series of weird little curves and set-backs. I tried the smallest pick in my pouch, but there was no way it was going to fit inside. I¡¯d have to look for another way in.


    I crouched there, thinking. My line of thought went something like this: The damned thing was stolen goods. If Javanovik was guilty, he couldn¡¯t very well expect anyone coming to retrieve it to be overly fastidious. Sneak thieves seldom were. Also, assuming I¡¯d been given the true story by my client, he couldn¡¯t very well file a complaint with the police without implicating himself in the theft.


    Tucking the picks into my pocket, I fished out my pocket knife and started working around the edges of the glass front, seeing what it would take to remove it. I caught a break. The cabinet maker had run putty around the pane on both the inside and outside and then painted over it to match the surrounding metal. The paint had allowed enough air to get through to make the putty brittle. It began to flake away almost immediately. It would be a simple matter to peel enough away to work the glass loose and gain free access.


    The work went fairly fast. I was two-thirds around the edge when I noticed the subtle change to the feel of the darkened antique shop. It had been as quiet as a church on a weekday up to then, but suddenly I got the impression that things had gotten even quieter. Quieter in some way that I couldn¡¯t quite put my finger on. It was a little like I was suddenly working in a vacuum. At the same time, I got the distinctly unsettling impression I wasn¡¯t alone.


    Even so, I kept working at the caulking as I glanced around. With luck, even if Javanovik had detected something wrong and had come to investigate, I could get the glass free, scoop up the toboda, and make a full press run. If I moved fast enough, and stayed down low, there was a reasonable chance I might not be recognized from my earlier visit as I plowed through to the alley.


    I nearly had the glass panel worked free, and I still couldn¡¯t put my finger on what had changed. There was also no indication of anyone on the sidewalk outside, and no rattling at the door. Still, the feeling persisted, and I couldn¡¯t help but feel vulnerable. Not that I¡¯d have wanted the situation to devolve into violence. Toward that end, I¡¯d left my service .45 back at the office. There were two good reasons for that, at least they¡¯d seemed good at the time. At least both had been reasonable.


    First, if things got really hairy and you happened to have a gun on you, there was a good chance you¡¯d fall back on using it. That presented dual problems. Gunfire might be met with return fire. And, of no less concern, the police tended to take a dim view of anyone blasting away within the city limits. Add in breaking and entering, and it might have made my situation even more uncomfortable.


    Secondly, it wasn¡¯t unreasonable to assume a beat cop might be patrolling the neighborhood. If he chose to stop me on the street, it might be difficult to explain just why I was strolling the boulevard armed to the teeth. It would be even harder, if I was fleeing the scene with the stone representation of a screaming hoodoo under one arm.


    I felt the glass shift microscopically. If I was in some ¡®B¡¯ film noir, I¡¯d now produce a suction cup from my pocket and cleverly use it to effortlessly lift the pane out of the way. But, hey, I was living in the real and largely unforgiving world. I settled for pressing on the lower edge while prying at the top end with the blade of my knife.


    I should have caught it as it came loose, and under normal circumstances I would have. Both hands were poised within easy reaching distance but, just at that moment, a distinctly stealthy sound came from somewhere in the darkened shop. Logically, it must have come from the back room. That troubled me. I¡¯d closed the door behind me but, figuring I might want to make a quick exit, I hadn¡¯t locked it. It was a rookie mistake, but there it was.


    And then the glass pane abruptly pitched forward and crashed to the floor, shattering amid considerable noise. I instantly went into panic mode. I forgot about the alien sound and the possibility that if I headed out through the other room, I might run smack into Jovanovic. All I could think of at the moment was to grab the toboda and get the hell out of there before things escalated. I¡¯d played a little football in high school, so I knew how to handle a stubborn blocker if it came to that.  Go straight and low. My eyes directed at the doorway leading to the rear of the store, I reached blindly into the display case.


    Evidently, in trying to grab the falling glass panel, I¡¯d jostled the case. That was the only sane and logical reason for the two figures in the foreground to have moved together to form a grotesque barrier between myself and the toboda.


    It was the hulking block of black stone on the right, the one that looked like a malicious bullfrog, that I¡¯d run up against. Even in the dim light that filtered through the shop¡¯s front window, I could make out the smear of blood across its bloated cheek. There was also a deep groove across the back of my hand. Strangely, I didn¡¯t see any projections on the sculpture for me to have cut myself against.


    Well, whatever. At least nobody had rushed from the other room at the sound of glass breaking, but I was wasting valuable time. I reached back into the case and rudely shoved the lava statue aside. Or I tried to. It put up quite a struggle before I managed to shift it sufficiently to grab the toboda by the top of its flattened head. The offending figure spun slightly and rocked as I withdrew my hand and the toboda. That seemed a little strange, given its previous heft, but I shrugged that off. Clutching the toboda, I turned to head back the way I¡¯d come.


    That was when things got really strange. Familiarly and painfully so. Given the eccentric and frankly disturbing stock that he traded in, I at first assumed that Javanovik had arrived and put on some weird costume to try to scare the bejabbers out of me.  Maybe he figured that a burglar would be scared out of his wits long enough for him to reach a gun or club that was probably stashed behind the counter.


    The point was, there was now a hunched, hairy figure squatting between me and the door to back of the shop, gently rocking back and forth as it silently regarded me. Approximately five feet tall, though it could have probably matched my six feet if it had straightened up. The face was coal black, with reddish hair framing it. This mane continually shifted, as if in a breeze, giving the impression of being composed of actual flame. The eyes were dark, and I only placed them due to yellow rims around them. And then there were teeth. Large, pointed teeth. The body seemed to be covered in brightly colored patterns, though in the subdued light I couldn¡¯t clearly make them out.


    I got the feeling it wasn¡¯t a man in a costume when it hissed at me. The sound would have done a steam whistle proud. That could have been faked, sure, but the jaws opened further than any human beings could. That gave me a view of a prehensile blue tongue and at least two additional rows of teeth.


    Clutching the toboda like it was some kind of shield, I sidled toward the front of the shop, figuring my chances of breaking through the front window were a hell of a lot better than those of getting past the thing. As I did, I tried to keep a heavy table covered in a couple of dozen dollar horrors between the thing and myself. Tables are good, take it from me. If you don¡¯t have a gun, go for a table. They can usually stall a frontal attack for a couple of minutes. A desk had saved my bacon a few months before. Unfortunately, this time I didn¡¯t have a bottle of sulfuric acid on me to finish the job.


    The hiss transitioned into a distinctively aggressive rattling sound as it continued advancing with a peculiar rolling, waddling stride. The thing seemed unsure as to which end of the intervening table would allow it reach me sooner. I decided not to make the decision easier for it, and shifted back and forth in order to counter each new false start. It evidently wasn¡¯t an intellectual as, any time I moved in a contrary direction, it paused for a few seconds.


    That gave me some hope. If it needed time to compensate for unexpected movement on my part, it might be possible to fake it out by feinting toward one end, then taking off in the opposite direction. If I could have discarded the toboda, I¡¯d have felt a lot better about trying to make a run for it. But, hey, if I was going to be eaten, it might as well not be for nothing.


    The thing unexpectedly made a clumsy lunge forward. Evidently its answer to the problem was to come across or through the table, showing no concern for the myriad of its small cousins spread out across the top. The thick shoulders bunched and lowered in preparation for the leap, and I could have sworn its piggy little eyes glowed with anger.


    Figuring it was now or never, I made my move. Keeping the toboda tucked under one arm, I crouched low to get my free shoulder under the edge of the tabletop. Then I heaved up. The table was considerably heavier than I¡¯d figured, and at first it only took a hitch backwards. I ignored the pain as the sharp edge found the vulnerable spot below of my collarbone, but gave it another try. I tried gain, painfully aware that the shaggy vision was showing indications of recovering from its initial confusion and was about to pick a route to yours truly.


    This time the trick worked. The table hinged over and slammed to the floor with a thunderous crash, turning the little figurines into shrapnel. The thing fell back a step under the bombardment, and I was off like a shot.


    Even the best laid plans can develop unexpected snags, especially if there¡¯s not a lot of planning behind them. In fleeing, I sprained my ankle stumbling over one of the fallen deities. I barely managed to skirt a second display table and make it into the darkened back room.  Of course, the back door was still closed. Operating in panic mode, I lost ten precious seconds pushing when I should have been pulling.


    Ignoring the stabbing pain in my ankle, I finally wrenched the door open and limped down the alley as quickly as I could. Working through my panic, I did a little quick, if disjointed, thinking. The thing had showed up as I¡¯d laid hands on the toboda, not while I¡¯d been stumbling around in the dark.


    That suggested that either it might be something that the shopkeeper had called up to guard things, or that it was somehow tied to the specific statue. Lucius¡¯ parallel to Capone came readily to mind. Maybe this was one of the lesser evils drawn to the toboda -- even if it was only a stone replica.


    Lesser. I had to laugh. There had certainly been nothing ¡®lesser¡¯ about the hulking nightmare that had confronted me inside. Then I sobered. If it had indeed been summoned to the ugly little figuring, it might continue to dog my steps until it retrieved both it and my head.


    I had only one hope-- that the thing was  a protective entity summoned and bound to the shop and wouldn¡¯t pop up again before I rid myself of the toboda and collected my fee.

 FIVE

    V


    While I¡¯m no track star, and I was working around an injured ankle, I made it to the truck in under sixty seconds. All the while, I kept a tight focus on my goal, being frankly afraid to look back. During our brief encounter, the thing hadn¡¯t struck me as being especially fleet of foot. Still, anything as weird-looking as it had been probably had a nasty surprise of two built in.


    I reached the side of the truck and fumbled around the statue, which seemed to have grown inexplicably heavier. The driver¡¯s side door briefly stuck, then finally jerked open with sufficient force that I nearly took a spill. It had to be imagination, but it almost felt as if the toboda was doing everything it could to twist out of my already tenuous grasp.


    I piled inside, rudely tossed the statue to the far side of the seat, stomped on the clutch pedal, and turned the key. The engine grudgingly coughed to life, encircling the ancient truck in an acrid cloud of white smoke. Without allowing the engine a decent amount of time to warm up, I jammed the pick-up into gear and took off.


    I was at a distinct disadvantage. It had been a long time since I was last in the neighborhood, and that time I¡¯d stuck to the main streets. The narrow side streets, some badly rutted and spotting the occasional upthrust paving brick, were consequently a profound mystery to me. Adding into to that, I had only the vaguest idea of where I was headed.


    Southward, I figured. Frankly, I wasn¡¯t even too sure of that. The spotty illumination of the irregularly spaced street lights was more of  sullen glow that more obscured than revealed my surroundings. Evidently the local kids had elevated the art of smashing them to Olympic levels, and the city had either elected to divert their tax dollars elsewhere or had simply given up running needed maintenance after numerous attempts to rectify the situation.


    In the end, I decided to turn left at the next intersection, go a couple of blocks, then turn left again. That should theoretically put me back on the main drag. Only it didn¡¯t. The second turn landed me in a cul-de-sac. I slowed to make a u-turn, figuring I¡¯d guessed right about the thing in the shop being tied to a fixed location.


    Not that I knew a lot about hell spawn, but it sounded like something the Professor might have chattily revealed, if the topic of guardian demons had come up.  I turned to back to the curb in preparation for the maneuver, I shot a wary glance at the toboda and got a distinct shock.


    Maybe it was an illusion of the pale moonlight coming in through the truck¡¯s windows, but the lavender stone seemed to have acquired a faint glow. It was more of a faint halo, and the color was so close to that of the statue that I decided it was just a quirky reflection.


    But then again, had I tossed the toboda into that exact position? I¡¯d have sworn the bloated face had been turned away, but now I saw that the statue had shifted to face me. I wasn¡¯t up to any more weirdness, so I opted for the logical explanation. The thing was just a relic I¡¯d been hired to acquire, no more. The streets here were a mine field for tires. No doubt one of the jolts the truck had taken had caused it to change position. I steeled myself and headed back to the cross street.


    A block along, I ran into a particularly wide and deep hole blocked off which I¡¯d barely circumvented before. It was ringed by a few sagging sawhorses and a rusted sign on a bent pole that read ¡®ROAD CLOSED.¡± Caught off guard by its sudden appearance, as I¡¯d been watching the road behind in the rearview mirror, I jammed on the brakes. The sudden deceleration pitched the toboda forward, and I just caught it with a restraining arm before it hit the dashboard. I immediately came near dropping it and only just managed to juggle it back onto the seat.


    Damn! The thing was almost red hot. As it ricocheted between the seat back and the door, I noticed the woven fabric seat back sported a darkened, singed spot that I hadn¡¯t noticed before. I thought I detected a faint wisp of smoke drifting up from this, before the statue flopped back to obscuring it.


    I regarded the thing warily for a few moments. Common sense told me to get out, find something heavy to put on the accelerator pedal, and send the truck into the excavation. I could probably fabricate some tale for my client that would place the blame for my non-delivery elsewhere and still allow me to keep the up-front money.


    I¡¯d need it to soothe the aged truck owner¡¯s nerves, s it was showing indications of being near to chugging off to automotive Valhalla.


    The way I figured it, the truck couldn¡¯t have possibly cost him more than a ¡®c¡¯ note. With a little encouragement, I might be able to talk him into seeking out a more modest ride.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Well, sitting there wasn¡¯t doing me or my nerves any  favors. I shifted into reverse.


    I¡¯d have to go back the way I¡¯d come, and I¡¯d better get to it. That meant passing the antique shop to get to the main throughfare. I only hoped I wouldn¡¯t see a familiar hunched shape as I passed the alley behind Javanovik¡¯s shop.


    I hugged the far curb so tightly as I passed the antique shop that it probably cost the tires on that side a quarter inch of rubber. Thankfully, there wasn¡¯t much to see. The back door was some way down the darkened alley, and with no interior lighting from the back room it was impossible to say if it was still open. I gathered that Javanovik hadn¡¯t been notified of my intrusion. Which was probably just as well for him. I know my reaction to being rudely wakened by a demon from the nether darkness would be less than pleasant.


    When I wheeled around the corner and headed away from the shop¡¯s ornate fa?ade, I risked a final quick glance back. The front window was similarly dark. I¡¯d have heaved a profound sigh of relief if it hadn¡¯t been for the ugly chunk of stone now visibly simmering away beside me.


    A mile along, in a better part of the city, I was faced with another problem. How could I manage to deliver the toboda to my client without burning my hands. I grinned in spite of myself. I had a new and distinctive definition of the term ¡®hot property.¡¯ Well, I decided, assuming I could scrape off a little profit beyond the price of replacing the truck, I could always replace a burned jacket. Maybe I could even spring for a full suit, once the issue of the back rent was settles. Things were starting to look up, once I got past the disturbing supernatural trappings.


    That was when the truck gave an unexpected sideways lurch. What the devil had I clipped? The street ahead had been deserted, and I hadn¡¯t noticed even  hint of street trach beyond a blowing newspaper.


    My foot had slipped off the gas pedal at the impact, but I immediately shifted it back so as not to lose momentum. It had taken considerable effort to coax the venerable truck up to forty in the first place, and I suspected that whatever suspension it had left might not react kindly to another surge of speed. The last thing I needed was for the A frame to give up the ghost.


    For the moment, I forgot about the sudden shimmying of the truck. I shouldn¡¯t have, but I know that now in blessed retrospect. Now that I had my bearings, I figured it was another six minutes to the client¡¯s hotel. I wanted to get rid of the statue as quickly as I could and go somewhere where there were people. Lots of people and lots of noise. I had in mind the Amber Note, a small all-night jazz club where I sat in every third Friday night. Moe Schwartz, the manager, was a Grade A talker with a vast list of imagined illnesses he never tired of elaborating on. Right now, I could use three or four hours of verbose company and a few stiff drinks, even if the discussion would involve Moe¡¯s other pet hobby -- fine cuisine. Which was funny, since Moe once frankly admitted that he couldn¡¯t boil water.


    The moonlight shining through the rear window was suddenly eclipsed. It had briefly dimmed at intervals as I moved from one street light to another, but this was different It was as if something large and very solid had suddenly appeared directly behind my neck. I risked a quick look in the mirror, dreading what I¡¯d see.


    Evidently the Professor¡¯ summation of the toboda as the Al Capone of the demonic world had been accurate. My cherished fantasy that the thing in the antique shop had remained inside instantly evaporated. It was half-squatting not six inches away, trying to offset the lurching of the truck with wide-spread feet, its presumably fetid breath fogging the glass. One massive hand raised, poised like some fat, evil snake about to strike. I got a flashing glimpse of a stub that might have been a thumb and three fingers that were easily two inches thick and sported sharp, black talons.


    I¡¯d like to think I meant to suddenly veer toward the sidewalk. The maneuver was probably in the back of my mind, but if I¡¯m honest my right leg kicked out spasmodically and I lost my grip on the wheel as I stared back at the thing. The truck took it from there. I had just enough time to half-turn and register the lamp post coming up fast before the truck struck and jumped the curb. That brought me up short as the front end of the pick-up began to accordion.


    Lucky me. The steering wheel broke my forward plunge, so at least I didn¡¯t go through the windshield. It felt like half the ribs on my left side were suddenly rearranged, then bounced back into place. I probably should have been glad they did snap back instead of splintering, but thinking clearly was beyond me at the moment.


    Looking back, I don¡¯t clearly recall getting the door open, tearing off my jacket, and wrapping the toboda in it. If I¡¯d been thinking rationally, I¡¯d have just hot footed it and left the statue behind. Maybe that would have distracted thing in the back. Just then, though, it was a toss of the coin whether it wanted to return the little horror to the shop or tear my head off and dribble it down the street.


    I weaved down the street, driven by some idiotic idea that the thing couldn¡¯t hit a moving target, and totally heedless to the fact that the continual switchbacks were cutting back on my putting real distance between myself and the wrecked truck. I thought I could hear cadenced pattering some distance behind me, but that could have been my imagination or the night wind kicking up street trash. If they were footfalls, they were considerably softer than the demon¡¯s bulk would have suggested.


    Thinking clearer now, I adjusted my course to hug what little illumination the street lights could afford as I took in my surroundings. The only thing I had going for me was that address my client had given me was now only a block ahead. I¡¯d feel better once I was inside the lobby. It would be well-lit and there might be people there. It was barely possible one fact or the other might deter my pursuer. For now, I just had to hold onto what was probably a very short lead.

 SIX

    VI


    The pool of light cast by the last lamp post in the row was suddenly deformed by a twisted shadow that flickered erratically across it. I tried to put on even more speed. By my reckoning, the damned thing couldn¡¯t be further than ten feet behind me and it was gaining fast. I angled across the drive that fronted in hotel, vaulted  low hedge, and dropped into that familiar pose from my football days.


    This had better work, Lee, I recall thinking as I tucked the swathed toboda under one arm and strong armed my way through the front door.


    Fortunately, the door to the lobby door wasn¡¯t locked, so the arm remained intact if a little numbed by the impact. There was no one inside beyond a drowsy clerk who perked up considerably at the unexpected clamor of the door being shoved aside with considerably more force than his usual elite clientele would exert. I skidded to a stop in the center of the lobby and tried desperately to look as if there was nothing unusual about my arrival. It was a forlorn, doomed hope. I was disheveled, my hand was still bleeding and, standing slightly bent from the pain my battered ribs were kicking up, I probably looked like Quasimodo¡¯s second cousin.


    He shot me the hairy eyeball as I crossed the lobby as if I owned the place and vanished into the nearest elevator. As I turned to select my floor, I got a clear view of the lobby. There was no sign of the creature from the antique shop, just the clerk crossing to inspect the door for possible damage. It looked as if my hunch about its aversion to the glare of the overhead light or the presence of a potential witnesses had paid off. I should have felt reassured, but somehow I didn¡¯t. The night had already been full of surprises ,and it was still early. The sooner I delivered the toboda and collected my pay, the better.


    I got off on the ninth floor paused to orient myself. The corridor was, pardon the expression, dead quiet, and the lights had been dimmed down for the night. I followed the heavily patterned strip of carpet to room nine eighteen and knocked on the door. It was a safe bet that the client was in and expecting me, since she¡¯d stressed that she¡¯d like the statue tonight is at all humanly possible.


    No answer. The feeling of uneasiness increased. I checked out the hallway in both directions, half expecting it discover a hunched horror creeping stealthily in my direction. I briefly wondered if it would even need an elevator to reach me, or if it might just pop up unannounced the way Masaka did. Then I ditched that line of thought as too disturbing and knocked again.


    In a cheap movie, this was where the door would hinge open with no visible cause. The lights would be on, but it would be deadly quiet inside. I¡¯d walk in on to find a desiccated corpse and either a hired assassin or my shaggy friend from the antique shop waiting for me. I comforted myself that this was the real world. In and out with the rest of my fee. Right now, given other matters, it was faint comfort.


    I knocked a third time, louder. By now I was getting extremely edgy. Shifting the swathed statue slightly, I tried the knob. It turned effortlessly and the door gave an inch.  Okay, I mentally reassured myself, she¡¯s probably an out-of-towner from some burg where they don¡¯t lock their doors at night. Yeah, sure. That tied in perfectly with the expensive big city outfit she¡¯d worn in my office.  Taking a deep breath, I pushed entered the room.


    Someone had been packing, or maybe they¡¯d been interrupted while unpacking, though that seemed less likely. There were two open suitcases on a bed, which I noticed was made up maid-perfect. Three dresses were neatly lined up along the edge, each sporting a satin covered hanger. None of them had that rumpled ¡®worn¡¯ look, so I decided that she¡¯d arrived that morning, started to unpack, then had abruptly gone shopping for some gullible idiot to liberate the toboda.


    Then again, that scenario seemed kind of odd. I¡¯d have pegged her for the fastidious type who would have hung everything up first thing. I made a quick round of the room, looking for anything else that might give me a clue as to what had gone on, and how it might affect me. There were absolutely no personal items set out in the bathroom. I decided they were probably in the other suitcase. If she¡¯d checked in and headed right out again, her toiletries were probably still packed in the suitcases.


    Only they weren¡¯t. I found that out when I put the toboda down on the bed and twitched aside a patterned blue flowered silk blouse that had been carelessly tossed across the nearer open case. Something else was there. A lot of somethings. My suspicions that I had been played for a sucker and that a lot had been deliberately held back when she¡¯d poured out her tale of woe, had evidently been very well-founded.


    I recalled the heavy display table back at Jovanovic¡¯s shop. The one that had been literally overflowing with little grotesque figurines. While the contents of the suitcase weren¡¯t identical to those now scattered around the showroom floor, a number of these seemed passably similar. I did a quick inventory and came up with a count of thirty.


    There was a layer of cardboard beneath the array, so I figured there was probably at least a second tier lurking underneath. Maybe a third. I did some quick mental gymnastics and came up with a minimum profit of three thousand on the open market. Significantly more if there were indeed additional layers in the case.


    My mind skewed toward finding a  rational explanation. I¡¯d had as much of the supernatural as I could handle, so why not momentarily  place the thing outside the hotel aside and search for a saner explanation of at least part of this mess?


    Okay then. I was possibly dealing with a business rival of Jovanovic¡¯s. This was her sample case. In no way she was some sort of deranged cultist assembling a demonic army and planning to place the toboda at its head. I liked the idea, since it gave me a reasonable rationale for the whole mess. It was possible that the oily little dealer had stolen the crown jewel of my client¡¯s collection. That would explain her looking for outside help to retrieve it.  Maybe that part of the pitch had been true.


    Then my thoughts began to seesaw. Then there was the thing that had pursued me. Beyond that, why would she be carrying this stone menagerie around with her? The case, loaded, must have weighed a ton. It hardly seemed logical that she¡¯d be toting around that many samples to show to interested clients. There were catalogs for that, as well as auction houses that could see to the distribution them to the morbidly inclined. Of course, I reflected, auction houses would want a percentage of the take for their trouble. I could understand cost cutting on her part.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Another possibility suggested itself; one that could bring me into unwanted contact with Ed Alley -- my least favorite ember of the local force --  if I wasn¡¯t careful. The lady could just as easily be a smuggler. I knew there were people who made a trade of quietly importing stolen relics from Central America or all kinds of Tsarist whatnots. New Orleans was a port city. It had been since the 1700s.


    Given that my hunch was right, she might have just taken possession of a shipment of contraband, only to have Jovanovic snag the toboda out from under her. Or maybe he¡¯d had it brought in and she¡¯d found out about it, wanted it, and had spun a tale of woe for my benefit, making me patsy.


    As large and obscure as the toboda was, it was probably worth more than the whole ugly bunch before me combined. Good incentive. No wonder she¡¯d been so hot to get her hands on it. For now, I wasn¡¯t even going into my third line of thought, which said that she and/or probably Jovanovic knew the hellish thing had supernatural powers, and wanted it for just that reason. That suggested obeah or something even more unpleasant.


    During all this wool gathering, I¡¯d been standing by the bed, my back to the door. Now there was a muffled sound from the corridor. I unconsciously fell into a guilty crouch, reaching to scoop up the toboda, which I¡¯d briefly set on the bed. If it was my client outside, the statue was my only bargaining chip. If she wanted it badly enough, maybe I could still cut a deal for an extra buck or two or, at the very least, talk my way out of a bullet.


    Then it hit me. The way my night had been going, it might well be my ugly little friend from the shop. If that was the case, it wouldn¡¯t have needed to know the room number to find me. It would have homed in on the toboda. I hastily backed into the bathroom and closed the door behind me, unconsciously still holding the toboda. Looking back, I have no idea why I¡¯d picked it up, essentially helping the shaggy thing home in on me.


    Fortunately, the muffled thump I made when I closed the bathroom door coincided with the outer door opening, so it went unnoticed. At least the knob of the bathroom door didn¡¯t immediately start rattling frantically, as I¡¯d half suspected it might.


    What brought me around, and came pretty near to stopping my heart, was the pair of black basalt figures perched on the far side of the vanity. They were pretty obvious Polynesian in origin, I¡¯d seen those enormous pupil-less almond-shaped eyes on the literature in the travel agent¡¯s office.


    The figures mutely regarded at me. I stared back at them, half expecting them to make some life-ending move. After all, I was still clutching the toboda, and if it did attract followers as Lucius had suggested, I was in even deeper trouble. For a moment I entertained the idea of cramming the statue down the toilet and giving it a good flush, but of course it was far too big to fit down the drain.


    There was the sound of rummaging in the room beyond. I made out a rustling that was probably the client¡¯s clothing being tossed to the floor, followed by a rattling of stone on stone. That would be the suitcase being shifted. From what I knew of women, it was highly unlikely that the owner of those dresses would treat them like cheap wrapping paper under normal circumstances. Something had evidently gone wrong somewhere.


    ¡°Damn!¡±


    The voice, muted as it was through the bathroom door, was feminine. Not at all like Jovanovik¡¯s tones, and I was pretty certain it wasn¡¯t the thing that had been chasing me half across God¡¯s own acre. It looked like my hunch and my employer had come home to roost. She¡¯d probably noticed the slight disarray my brief inspection of the suitcase had caused.


    If it hadn¡¯t been for the double evil eye from the dark figures on the counter, I probably would have stayed in the bathroom a little longer. Hopefully long enough for my client to stomp back outside, probably to complain to the front desk that someone had been in her room. However, at that moment, one of the things budged.


    It wasn¡¯t an actual lunge or anything like that, but for such a small movement it carried a lot of implied menace. The thing shifted slightly to bring those oversized eyes more directly on a line with me. Or, I guessed, on the toboda.


    That did it for my nerves. Frankly, given the weird events of the past six months, I was surprised they¡¯d lasted that long. Since Masaka had drifted into my life, I¡¯d stopped the summoning of a demon and barely managed to stop a second member of that fraternity from rebuilding his waning strength. Either of those escapades should have sent me to the happy house for a fitting for a new jacket. On particularly quiet days, when I¡¯m sitting behind my desk with nothing better to do, I wonder why it hadn¡¯t. They train you to handle a lot of things in the Marines, but the supernatural isn¡¯t one of them.


    There had been the suggestion in that minimal movement that something was about to happen. That did it for my already jangled nerves. I was out of the bathroom in a flash.


    My client took it in stride, as if panic-stricken private investigators charging out of the privy was a daily happening. She didn¡¯t even fall back a step as she silently regarded the toboda, which had mostly shed my concealing jacket. Make that ¡®hungrily¡¯ regarded. That stare had the same charming feel of a hungry lioness ogling a hapless gazelle that had strayed from the herd.


    ¡°Nicely done,¡± she positively purred. ¡°You managed it in one day as requested,¡±


    ¡°Uh. Yeah,¡± I managed. ¡°But there¡¯s a slight complication. Something you didn¡¯t tell me about.¡±


    Her face darkened perceptibly, though her expression remained the same. I guessed she was concerned, though whether it was because I was reporting trouble or that I¡¯d discovered something she¡¯d felt I didn¡¯t need to, I couldn¡¯t tell. Her eyes had momentarily strayed to the bed.


    ¡°That covers a lot of ground,¡± she pointed out. ¡°Would you care to elaborate?¡±


    I hefted the toboda with one hand while I unwound my jacket from it with the other.


    ¡°You left out a few minor details,¡± I countered. ¡°Things I¡¯m pretty sure you knew full well, and figured I wouldn¡¯t take the job if I knew them. Things like this toboda of yours being a head honcho in the demon world.¡±


    She laughed. It was an unconvincing performance.


    ¡°The toboda is just a piece of crafted stone, Mr. Gammon. Valuable to collectors, yes, but that is all that there is to it.¡±


    Like I¡¯d buy that.


    ¡°Uh-uh.¡± I shot back, my thoughts returning to a quick exit. ¡®I¡¯ve seen it move. I also met a hulking thing in Jovanovik¡¯s shop that wanted to peel me like a grape, and evidently thinks it¡¯s this¡­¡±


    I raised the toboda for emphasis


    ¡°¡­this thing¡¯s protector. It followed me all the way to the hotel and, for all I know, it¡¯s still nosing around outside.¡±


    That hit home, and it hit hard. She went pale, half raised her hands as if to fend off some invisible menace, and backed up until the edge of the bed halted her retreat.


    ¡°It,¡± she asked, her slight accent heightened by her obvious fear, ¡°came here?¡±


    ¡°Right up to the front door. I¡¯m not sure why it stopped there. It couldn¡¯t have been the one man in the lobby, so I¡¯m operating on the theory that it doesn¡¯t like bright light.¡±


    She was muttering furious to herself at this point and casting frantic glances around the room. I caught the word ¡®rakshasa¡¯ or something very like that at one point, as well as something about devouring. I decided it might be a good time to hand over the toboda, make a quick pitch for a finder¡¯s fee, and make tracks.


    I didn¡¯t want to venture outside before dawn, but if I did coax a little extra out of her, maybe it would pay for a room for the night. A room definitely on another floor. If not, maybe I could hunt up an unattended broom closet where I could wait out the rest of the night.

 SEVEN

    VII


    I set the statue down on a bedside table, making sure that the thump this made was loud enough to momentarily snap her out of her dazed state. Her eyes focused on the toboda, and the look in them was the same as one I¡¯d once seen when Id stumbled cross an otter caught in a poacher¡¯s trap.


    ¡°Here¡¯s your statue.¡± I stated. ¡°You wanted it, I got it. If it¡¯s that valuable to you, maybe you could spring for at least another fifty for all my trouble¡±


    Considering the glazed look in her wide eyes, I knew I was wasting my time. Right now, she was dealing with a lot more than she, or anyone else, could handle. Money was clearly out of the question.


    She was furiously muttering something over and over, it took a few seconds for me to realize she was repeating ¡®you brought it here,¡¯ at a mile a minute.


    My voice somehow did penetrate through her panic. Her gaze shifted minutely. Just enough that she could take in both the toboda and me. She seemed afraid to look away from it, as if it would suddenly spring for her jugular. When she responded, it was in a rushed whisper.


    ¡°Take it away! I don¡¯t want it! Go! Just take it with you. Throw it in the ocean for all I care. Just leave!¡±


    Maybe it was having to strain my ears slightly to make out the individual words, but I was suddenly aware of a slight sound that had been there for the last minute or two. It sounded like stone-on-stone -- the sound a kid would get trying to make a spark by striking two stones together. I tried to place it, and my thoughts naturally went to the toboda. But no. It was squatting where I¡¯d left it on the bedside table, not having moved an inch or shifted its position. So that option was, rather surprisingly, out. Then what was making the repetitive sound, and where was it coming from?


    It was an overcast night that promised rain before morning. We¡¯d had rain nearly every evening for the last week, so what were the odds that I could get a break from the weather? However, the rain had held off so far tonight, and the moon was making periodic appearances through occasional gaps in the cloud cover. As I glanced past my rigid client, the rectangle of the window behind her caught my eye. That was when I got the answer to my unspoken questions regarding the thing from the antique shop.


    It was mostly a stirring in the outside gloom. The moon was indulging in one of her shy moments, having coquettishly pulled a cloud or two in close. I had a brief impression of some vague form stirring beyond the glass, then the suggestion of something outside grew. Physically grew until the lower half of the pane seemed largely obscured. Then the flickering started. It was as if there was a crescent of flame just outside. I had a sudden idea of just what I was seeing.


    The girl noticed my rapt stare and turned. That was when the cloud cover parted, revealing the damned thing I¡¯d played tag with in the antique shop and beyond. It had evidently gotten around the problem of the lobby lighting by simply climbing up the hotel facade. I idly wondered if anyone on the floors below had noticed anything in passing and called to desk to complain.


    One bulky fist came up and tentatively struck the pane. The thing seemed to be gauging the thickness of the glass. Evidently it decided that the clear barrier presented no problem, because it struck a second time -- this one more insistent. This was followed by a barrage. The glass bulged slightly inward and began to crack.


    Now the toboda on the bedside table moved. There was no mistaking the shift that brought the eyes around to regard the thing that was doing its best to break through to it. I had a distinct feeling that if anything was going to happen, it would happen within seconds. I mentally cursed my decision of not taking a gun along for my visit to the shop. But that was hindsight for you. I¡¯d never anticipated finding more than an abandoned building and a few inert effigies.


    Then, several things happened at once, or nearly so. Figuring the glass would be shattered in a few seconds anyway, I swept up the toboda and pitched in a long lateral, aiming as best I could for the monster outside¡¯s yellow-rimed eyes.  I¡¯m not completely sure what I was thinking at that moment. Maybe I figured that once it had the toboda back, it would return to the shop. Or I might have hoped that a good, sound hit between the eyes might dislodge it. As the thing had seemingly taken it at least ten minutes to scale the outer wall, that should be enough time for me to get the hell out of there before it picked itself up and repeated its climb. Bonus be damned, I wasn¡¯t sticking around for a second visitation.


    A split second after the statue left my hand, there was a loud sound of footsteps and excited voices in the hallway outside.  I turned to face the door and, in doing so, nearly missed the second occurrence.  I know what I saw, and yet I know it couldn¡¯t logically have happened.


    As the toboda smashed through the already weakened glass, something glittering and green materialized at the side of the things head and dug deep. I just got a brief glimpse of it, and that was more of an impression than a clear view. I¡¯d have sworn it was one of the jade-topped needles Masaka habitually wore in her hair.


    But that was impossible. We were nine floors up and the wall outside was virtually sheer unless you happened to have powerful claws that could dig into the concrete and tile fa?ade. Masaka had nails, but not claws.


    The toboda struck the thing in the center of its ugly face, probably driving in several slivers of the shattered window as it did so. The brute rocked back from the wall, driven by the force of the impact. I assume it fell, but the third thing that happened got my full attention. It was a good two minutes before I cast another glimpse at the broken window, and by then it revealed nothing but a night sky and a few scattered city lights in the distance.


    The reason it took me that long was because Ed Alley had so many questions that were suddenly very pressing. Evidently my precipitous arrival at the hotel, coupled with my wild-eyed appearance, had alarmed the night clerk. Maybe they¡¯d had trouble with sneak thieves. I never got a full story on that.


    At any rate the clerk had called the police. Alley had been putting in some overtime, and once he heard the thumbnail description of the unexpected intruder, he connected a few dots and came up with me. Naturally enough, given his all-consuming ambition to put me away for the next fifty years, that brought him running.


    As a detective, Alley¡¯d make an almost passable plumber. He has virtually no detecting skills, and chiefly solves whatever case he can bring to a close by blindly bulling along, trusting Lady Luck to feel sorry for him and toss him a bone. Once he got to the hotel, he naturally had no idea where to start his search. That put him in a sensitive spot. He didn¡¯t want to look like a complete fool in front of the three uniforms he¡¯d bought along for the ride.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    He¡¯d spent maybe five minutes in the lobby, asking all kinds of absurd and irrelevant questions until the clerk had gotten fed up with all this and mentioned that a paying guest had arrived shortly after I¡¯d showed up. Maybe there was some connection, though he couldn¡¯t possibly see what it might be. Desperate, Alley had followed God knew what lead the desk clerk could provide and rushed to the ninth floor. Unbeknownst to me, he¡¯d hammered on three prior doors before responding to the noise of the demon trying to break and enter.


    I briefly considered warning him to be leery of the contents of the case, but decided that he¡¯d like nothing better than to suggest to a judge that the city might be better off with me sent away for extended therapy. Besides, the way I saw it, maybe Alley was due for a shock. It was getting increasingly nettling that


    Alley had issues, as I could have predicted. There was the matter of the broken window, a damaged hinge on the lobby door, and the suitcase of unexplained figurines. Alley chose to regard all this as highly suspicious ,and slapped us both in separate cells. That was enough for now. He¡¯d sort it all out in the morning. At least that was the line he fed to the desk sergeant when we arrived at the station. Alley made it sound like he¡¯d uncovered a vast conspiracy to do¡­something. He faltered just a little when the man at the desk inquired as to just what kind of cabal he¡¯d broken up.


    I had the ¡®pleasure¡¯ of spending the night in jail. My client emerged from her state of shock, made a strategic call to what I presume was a high-profile lawyer, and was out on the street within the hour. Not so her sample case, which was held in evidence, as Alley had figured it would work against me. He was nonplused when it mysteriously vanished from the locked evidence room. Alley was sorely disappointed that there he  was no way he could tie the vanishing to me.


    I couldn¡¯t say the night was anything new.  got my one allowed phone call, and was sprung the following morning. I left the station house to the accompaniment of low growling from a frustrated Alley, who had hoped he finally had something definite on me. To Alley¡¯s disappointment, the hotel had decided that the damage to the room was the sole responsibility of my former client. I knew that  galled him.. He¡¯d figured that, for once, I¡¯d overstepped my bounds. He probably realized that I¡¯d been the one to break the window, but there was no clear way for him to prove it..


    My being back on the streets turned out to be the very least of Alley¡¯s woes. It developed that she was a smuggler catering to high-dollar collectors. Since her haul came from several widely-scattered cultures, not all of the items could be returned to the proper owners. A fair amount ended up at The Presbyt¨¨re. I decided that was one museum I¡¯d steer clear of from that date on.


    There were a few questions left unanswered. Neither the client nor I had mentioned the toboda or the thing that had come calling, but I¡¯d at least expected the police to find one or the other on the sidewalk, hopefully with the former had shattered into  a thousand tiny pieces.


    From what I¡¯ve subsequently been able to find out through a few discrete questions, the toboda hasn¡¯t been seen again. Not so far, at least There was predictably no mention of the guardian beast. I have to figure it went back to wherever it had come from, either alive or -- if that was possible -- dead.


    And then there was Masaka¡¯s possible intervention. That left a number of questions unanswered. If I had indeed seen one of her needles sticking from the side of the monster¡¯s head, I felt I needed to know exactly how she¡¯d managed things. First, how she¡¯d known where I was and what was happening. Second, how she¡¯s managed to attack the thing nine floors up, seemingly in midair.


    I decided to make a point of asking her the next time we met. Not that I¡¯d imagined in my fondest dreams that I¡¯d get an answer.


    There¡¯s a postscript to all this. Days later, business once again found me in the neighborhood of Jovanovic¡¯s shop. Given my preferences, I¡¯d have detoured around that block, but necessity dictated that I cruise on by, keeping my eyes averted if at all possible. I needn¡¯t have bothered.


    Before I reached the adjoining side street, it became obvious that some changes had been made. The side wall of the shop showed a patina of dark smudges streaking it. The front window was broken and what glass still clung to the cross bars was blackened to the point that it was no longer reflective. The ornate facade had been pulled down and was now stacked in a staggered pile at the curbside.


    I stopped and took the time to peer in through the shattered display window. The inside had been gutted, and the net lines of display cabinets were gone. I ambled next door to a coffee shop whose interior had largely been done up in driftwood, fishing floats, glossy shellacked crabs, and orange and green detailing, and inquired what had happened.


    The acne-spotted teen lounging at the counter, laboriously working through a detective pulp, sullenly asked if I wanted a menu. I declined, and got the impression that response was expected. The place was, after all, empty at twelve noon.


    It took time, but I managed to get a bit of relevant information from him. He lived in a shared room above a store across the street, and had happened to be out front for a smoke about midnight, Evidently, there had been considerable activity in the curio shop the previous night. Lights flashing around inside, and didn¡¯t burglars use flashlights?


    I assured him they sometimes did. He¡¯d briefly considered reporting it to Schwartz, the local beat walker, but that would have required expending actual energy. Looking my informant over with a critical eye, I decided that the conservation of energy was a deeply held belief for him.


    He had finally eased his conscience with the thought that, with all the ¡®weird stuff¡¯ in the shop, it wasn¡¯t as if whoever was inside would find anything they¡¯d want to steal. I had to agree with him on that one. Even so, he¡¯d stood there for over thirty minutes, watching the dance of the flashlights. He thought he¡¯d been in bed by one.


    Then, he continued, about two o¡¯clock, there¡¯d been considerable banging and hammering from somewhere out on the street. Prompted by a roommate, he¡¯d finally dragged himself out of bed and looked out the window. A good part of the ornate facade was half off the shop and lying on the cracked pavement.


    As far as he was concerned, that solved the mystery. The ¡®oddball guy¡¯ had finally gone out of business and was probably moving his stock to a truck parked in the alley. Anyway, he continued, the heat had kept him awake for a while, but just as he¡¯d managed to fall into an uneasy sleep, the sound of sirens had again jolted him awake. The antique shop was now on fire. What with the inconsiderate clamor of the firemen who were laboring to keep his current place of employment from going up in shared smoke, it had been nearly dawn before he was able to close a bleary eye. No wonder, he summed things up in an aggrieved tone, he was barely able to keep his eyes open.


    I pretended empathy and took my leave, now considerably more troubled than I¡¯d been when I¡¯d set out half an hour before. It looked as if Jovanovic had decided New Orleans wasn¡¯t a healthy place to be, and had pulled up stakes. Maybe he had feared his rival might tell the police something that would lead back to him. How he determined that she was under arrest, I didn¡¯t know.


    It was equally possible that his infernal watchman had somehow survived the fall and returned to appraise him of the situation. Maybe it had also recovered the toboda. I hoped not, and that the damned thing had been smashed in the fall.  If not, well, I didn¡¯t want to think about that at the moment. That might mean that the statue was still on the loose, along with a myriad of small stone followers.


    Conversely, the fire in the shop might mean that some sort of diabolical pact had been voided, and Jovanovic had been ¡®revoked¡¯ in a most unpleasant way. Though I really wanted to go with that option, the dismantling of the shop didn¡¯t seem to fit that scenario. It seemed more like the actions of a human agent. In the interests of a good night¡¯s sleep, I decided that it was likely that Jovanovic had simply closed up shop and had moved on some other city to start over.


    Still, that was not a pleasant thought.


    END