James Swain - Dark Magic

He was done. Picking up Turnbull’s passport, he held it to the mirror, and compared his face to the dead shopkeeper. It wasn’t a perfect match, but no one ever looked like their passport photo, and he knew it would pass muster.

Something didn’t feel right. He stared long and hard at the photo before realizing what it was. Turnbull had worn a dark suit and necktie in the photo, and looked dignified. He needed a new outfit, and the transformation would be complete.

Eighth Avenue was a potpourri of discount stores run by Middle Easterners. He picked a store called The Gent that sold men’s clothes. Shaking off the raindrops, he went inside.

Behind the counter sat a man wearing a purple Nehru jacket straight out of the psychedelic sixties. Wolfe had a theory about people who dressed in period costume: They were not happy with their lives, and wished to be living another one. An old Beatles song blared out of a boom box on the counter.

“My name is Fami. Welcome to my store,” the proprietor said.

“I’m looking for some business attire,” Wolfe said.

“What price range do you have in mind?”

“The cheaper the better.”

“How cheap is cheap?” Fami had a voice like a bird. Cheep cheep.

“I don’t plan to wear the clothes more than a few times.”

“Try the bins in the back. Those are the cheapest clothes in the store.”

The sixties motif followed Wolfe down the aisle. Posters of Hendrix, Joplin, Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground, and Jefferson Airplane covered the walls. Wolfe’s memories of the music were as faded as the art work, and he wondered why people like Fami wouldn’t let go.

The clothes in the back were knockoffs. He grabbed a fifty-dollar suit, a nine-dollar dress shirt, a five-dollar plastic belt, and a three-dollar striped necktie. The Beatles song ended, and he heard Fami making a phone call. The proprietor dialed only three numbers.

Wolfe’s radar went up. Fami could have been calling information, but hardly anyone used that service these days, preferring to look up phone numbers on the Internet.

An automated voice answered the call.

“You have dialed 911 of the New York City Police Department. Your call is very important to us. Please hold on.”

Wolfe cursed under his breath. Had Fami made him? It didn’t seem possible, yet that was the only explanation. He returned to the front of the store with the clothes. As Wolfe neared the counter, Fami drew a.38 Special from beneath the register, and aimed it at him.

“Put your arms where I can see them.”

“Hey, look, I just want to buy some clothes.”

“Do as I say-right now!”

Wolfe dropped the clothes onto the counter, and lifted his arms into the air.

“Mind telling me what I did?”

“You are a wanted man. The tattoo on your neck gave you away.”

A smokey mirror hung behind the counter. In its reflection, Wolfe saw how the Order’s tattoo had bled through the makeup. The elders were tracking him like a damn dog.

“Hey, be careful with that thing,” Wolfe said.

Fami’s hand was shaking. People who never handled guns were more dangerous than those who did. Wolfe prayed Fami didn’t shoot him.

No such luck.

The sound of the.38 discharging sent Wolfe an inch off the floor. The bullet ripped a swatch of fabric clean off the arm of his coat. The startled look on Fami’s face said he hadn’t meant to squeeze the trigger; it had just happened.

“You shot me,” Wolfe gasped.

His hand went to his side. The bullet had only grazed him. He pretended it was much worse, and started to moan.

“Help me…”

Fami took the bait. He came around the counter wearing a stricken look. Wolfe waited until he was close before knocking the gun away. He threw his hands around Fami’s throat, and began to choke him with the gold peace symbol hanging around his neck.

“This is 911. What’s your emergency?” came a voice out of the cordless phone on the counter.

“Help! He’s killing me,” Fami screamed.

“Hold on! We’re on our way,” the operator replied.

Two quick blows and Fami was lying on the floor. Wolfe grabbed the clothes off the counter and fled.

* * *

The gunshot was ringing in his ears as he entered his hotel room. Every soldier had a preference of how he wanted to die. Getting shot to death by a bloody hippie was not his.

He sat on the bed, and waited for his head to clear. His laptop sat on the dresser. The screen saver was of the beach in the Seychelles where he planned to retire with Rita. Just looking at the cobalt-blue ocean made him feel better. Without warning, the picture morphed into the Order’s shimmering symbol. It was the elders.

He grabbed the laptop and logged in. The elders had sent him an e-mail with an attachment, which he opened. It contained photographs of the remaining people on his hit list. The photograph of Millicent Adams had a bright red circle drawn around it, and he guessed they wanted him to take her out next. Bloody idiots. Next they’d be picking his meals for him.

He signed out of e-mail. To his surprise, the Order’s symbol remained on the screen. When he tried to retrieve the Seychelles screen saver, he discovered that it had been erased. He grabbed the laptop and shook it in a rage.

The elders were going to harass him until he got the job done. They didn’t care if he lived or died. He was just another dog they were keeping on a psychic leash.

Wolfe decided that he’d had enough. This would be his last contract for the Order. It was time for him to start a new life.

He put on his new clothes, feeling better about his situation already.

Peter and Liza cabbed it to the theater. Peter did not feel like talking, content to hold his girlfriend’s hand while staring out the window at the gusty winds that now accompanied the rain. The weather had been foul for days, and he wondered if the spirits were trying to tell him something. Instead of coming out and saying what was on their minds, the spirits always made it a puzzle, and challenged him to figure it out. It was as if he weren’t good enough for them, and had to prove himself whenever they made contact.

“Your fingers are ice cold,” Liza said. “I hope you’re not getting sick.”

He looked down at his hands. The skin had turned blue, and he cupped his hands and blew into them. He was reminded of how cold he’d gotten while confronting Wolfe outside Lester Rowe’s apartment. Was this a sign telling him that Wolfe was lying in wait at the theater? He wasn’t going to take any chances, and he called Zack on his cell phone.

“Hey Peter’s, what’s up?” his head of security answered.

“I’m five minutes away from the theater,” Peter said. “How we looking?”

“The place is packed. Your fan club from New Jersey is here.”

“I thought that was next week.”

“Nope. It’s tonight. Hope you’re ready for them.”

Peter sank into his seat. His fan club consisted of six hundred starry-eyed teenage girls who’d created a Web site where they posted their favorite stories about his shows. Dealing with them was almost as scary as the prospect of the assassin on the hunt for him.

“Any sign of Wolfe?” he asked.

“He hasn’t shown his ugly face,” Zack replied. “I tripled security inside the theater, and we’re giving everyone a pat down before they come in.”

“Is that causing any problems?”

“Yes. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Stay on your toes. Something tells me he’s nearby, hiding under a rock.”

“I’m all over it like a cheap suit,” Zack said.

“I know you are. See you soon.”

Five minutes later, the cab pulled up to the theater. A line of New Jersey tour buses hugged the curb. As Peter and Liza got out, a squealing teenager slipped out from beneath the canopy in front of the theater, and shoved a giant greeting card into Peter’s hands that had been signed by every member of his fan club.