John Miller - Death Draws Five

“Magazine, sir?”

The steward awoke Jerry out of his introspective haze by holding a selection of magazines before him. Business Week. Harpers. Esquire. A familiar-looking photo on the magazine a top the pile caught his eye. “Fortunato’s Incredible Return to New York,” the headlines blazed. “Famous Ace Seeks Unknown Son. Exclusive Report by Digger Downs.”

“Thanks,” Jerry said. “I’ll take this one.”

He took the brand new issue of Aces! from the pile, and settled back to read about Fortunato’s return to New York, until somewhere over Kentucky when he fell asleep and dreamed an uncomfortable dream in which he and Ray walked the streets of Branson, Missouri, searching for John Fortune, and were in turn stalked by man-sized walking zucchinis.

All Jerry could think was, Why zucchinis?

In the air to Branson

Ray woke up soon somewhere over Missouri. He sat carefully unmoving for a few moments, taking stock of the parts of his body that hurt, and the parts that didn’t. Hurt came out ahead, about ten to one.

He sighed and slowly moved his seat to the upright and locked position. Regeneration had never been painless, but lately it was taking more and more out of him. It took longer and hurt harder. He wondered if some day it would take as long for him to heal from a wound as it took an ordinary man. He wondered if someday his face might not repair itself. If his kidneys and liver and heart might not return to full working order. If skin and flesh and muscle and bone might not knit together again into a raveled whole.

He glanced over at Creighton, twitching in his sleep like he was having some sort of delicious dream, slumbering like a baby, without a care or a worry. God, Ray thought, what would it be like to be a simple P.I.? Catch a few criminals, catch a few zzz’s. Compared to his life, it sounded idyllic

Creighton jerked awake a few minutes later. He glanced wildly at Ray, but seemed to calm down almost immediately when he realized where he was. For a moment it looked as if he were going to say something, but then thought better of it and remained silent. Good, Ray thought. I have enough shit of my own to worry about.

Ray sat up straight all the way down to Branson, carefully drinking his orange juice until the steward came by to collect all cups and trash. He wouldn’t have minded a good, stiff drink even if the alcohol interfered with his body’s repair work. It was, however, his iron clad policy not to mix drinking and flying. Booze coupled with unexpected turbulence was a sure recipe for disaster.

As it turned out, this flight was as smooth as a walk in the park, as was the landing. Taxi-ing to the gate was interminable, even though the Branson airport wasn’t exactly Tomlin International. Taxi-ing to the gate always annoyed Ray. He was the first to stand and rescue his carry-on from overhead storage, being careful because of course the baggage could have shifted during flight. He dragged Creighton’s bag down as well, handed it to him, and headed off the plane, Creighton half jogging to keep up.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” the P.I. asked.

Ray wasn’t sure. He was just eager to get it on, to find John Fortune and deliver him to Barnett. To finish with this nonsense and start exploring other options. He wasn’t sure just yet what they might be. Hell, he had no fucking idea. Suddenly he just wanted to finish this while his skin was relatively whole.

Was he, Ray wondered, suddenly developing a sense of caution? And if so, was that a good or bad thing?

My God, Ray thought, not introspection, too.

They stopped as they entered the terminal proper though the covered walkway. A big white banner with big block letters painted in red was strung up near their gate. “WELCOME MAGOG,” it proclaimed.

Underneath, before, and around the banner were scores of women. Women dressed in pantsuits. Women wearing sensible shoes and plain, long dresses. Women with teased hair. Women with bouffant hair. Women whose hair was like the girls’ hair at Ray’s senior prom back in Montana in the 1970’s. All had adhesive tags on their blouses that said: “Hi! My Name Is” in big letters above a white space that had names like Lurleen and Ellen Sue carefully filled in with felt-tip markers. They were all talking and embracing and standing in knots and groups and generally clogging the flow of foot traffic. Ray and Creighton stopped, stood, and stared.

“What the Hell is MAGOG?” Ray asked.

“He was like, a demon in the Bible, man,” a voice said behind them. “Or maybe a giant. I forget which.”

Ray and Creighton turned as one, stared, then looked at each other in wonderment.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” Creighton asked.

Mushroom Daddy smiled brightly. He was freshly bathed and smelled only very, very faintly of cannabis overlain by what must have been a gallon of Old Spice. He was probably wearing his best clothes, which, Ray thought, made him look like a Salvation Army reject only forty years out of date. He had on a purple silk shirt and a paisley tie and vest to match, and suede bell bottoms with vertical red and orange stripes. He made Ray’s eyes hurt.

“Well, man, I had to come to get my van, man. I called Jerry’s office and told them all about how that chick stole my van, and they told me what flight you were taking so I decided I’d better follow you guys and see about, like, getting my van back.” He looked a little hurt. “I couldn’t afford to sit up in first class, though.”

Ray closed his eyes. When he opened them there was a narrow, dangerous cast to them. “Creighton’s office told you what flight we were on?”

“That’s right, man.”

Ray shifted his gaze to the P.I. “Now, Ray—” Creighton protested.

“Hey, man,” Mushroom Daddy interrupted, “are you a P.I., too?” he asked Ray.

“No. I’m with the government,” Ray said.

Daddy pulled away. “Like, the CIA, man?”

Ray laughed. “CIA? Those pussies? They’re afraid of us, man.”

“Oh.” Daddy thought it over. “That’s okay, then.”

Ray and Creighton exchanged another glance, then shrugged.

“All right,” Creighton said. “Well, we’ll see you around... Daddy.”

Mushroom Daddy shook his head. “Uh-huh, man. I’m sticking with you guys until I get the van back.”

“I don’t think—” Creighton began, but Ray took his arm.

“Excuse us a moment,” he said to Daddy, and pulled Creighton away a few feet. “We can’t have this brain dead hippie stumbling along after us, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, and probably getting it shot off. I wouldn’t mind that so much, but he’d probably get us shot to Hell and back, too.”

“What are we going to do with him then?” Creighton asked.

Ray stood still, thinking, his lips twitching in distaste. “Bring him along for now. We can always find some pretext to dump him later. Or maybe get his ass thrown in jail for awhile.”

“That wouldn’t be fair,” Creighton said.

“Who gives a shit about being fair?” Ray asked. “I’m talking about survival.”

Creighton looked him in the eye, then glanced away. “All right. I see your point. Anyway, maybe he’ll be useful. Somehow.”

“Yeah,” Ray said. “Like tits on a bull.”

An indeterminately aged woman whose frosted blonde hair was piled atop her head like a plate of onion rings glared at him like he’d farted in church or something. Creighton went off to talk to Daddy as Ray found himself under the woman’s suspicious scrutiny. He tipped an imaginary hat to her and walked away. She harrumphed to herself as he joined Creighton and Daddy, thereby confirming her worst suspicions.

I know, Ray thought, where she’s headed. Along with all the rest of the kooks.