George Chesbro: Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

We'd been at it for ten minutes since our last water break, with me assuming the attacking role. It was unarguably more taxing to keep leaping out of the way than it was to slash with the light pole, but I was the one getting sweaty and out of breath as I kept slicing up the air around Veil's constantly dodging and weaving body.

"I've got Mets tickets for Thursday night," Veil said as he leaped high into the air to avoid my swipe at his knees. I followed up with a chop at his head, and he spun away. "Want to go?"

"I can't," I wheezed, hacking at his right shoulder and missing as usual. "I'll be in Switzerland."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Going to Switzerland is always a pleasure." Puff-puff.

"You got that right."

I feinted a blow at his left thigh, then spun around and swung at the space where his midsection should have been. I missed by a foot; Veil always seemed just out of reach. "I plan to take care of a little business and a lot of vacation." Puff-puff. "Harper's coming over on Saturday."

"Sounds good to me. What's cooking in Switzerland that requires the attention of the senior partner of Frederickson and Frederickson, if I may ask?"

"The senior partner of Frederickson and Frederickson isn't really sure what he's supposed to do in Switzerland," I said as I abruptly leaped forward and launched a vicious series of short chops aimed at Veil's head and shoulders. He retreated, and I went after him, moving him smartly around the loft, but never landing a blow. "As close as I can figure it, my client"-puff-puff-"simply wants me to go to Zurich and ask Interpol to grade themselves on their progress in the hunt for a very kinky crook by the name"-puff-puff-"of John Sinclair, who nipped a foundation my client operates for a cool ten million. Since I can't believe he believes Interpol and the police over there will say much of anything except that they're doing a wonderful job, I consider my mission a bit foggy." Puff-puff.

I swung hard at Veil's head, and to my utter astonishment the splayed end of the pole landed square on his right cheek with a loud swonk. Because I was so accustomed to having Veil avoid anything I could throw at him, I had swung with all my might. But he had suddenly and unaccountably stopped dead in his tracks a moment before I had launched my strike, and now the end of the pole had sliced his flesh. His deep blue eyes registered neither surprise nor pain, but blood welled up over the edges of the two-inch-long cut, then rolled in a scarlet sheet down his cheek.

"Jesus, Veil!" I cried, throwing the pole to one side and hurrying over to him. "I'm sorry!"

"Not your fault," Veil said somewhat absently as he walked over to the matted area. He picked up a towel, pressed it to his slashed cheek, then headed for the partitioned-off living area at the far end of the loft. "You expected me to get out of the way, and I should have. I slipped, lost my footing."

Feeling queasy and guilty, I followed him into the living area, through the small, spartanly furnished bedroom into the bathroom, where he turned on the tap, leaned over the sink, and began to flush the cut with cold water. It hadn't looked to me like he'd slipped; he'd simply stopped moving. "You want help?" I asked anxiously.

He shook his head as he opened the medicine cabinet above the sink and took out a gauze compress, which he pressed against his cheek. Then he turned, fixed me with his ice-blue eyes. "I'm all right, Mongo. It's just a superficial cut." He paused, and shadows seemed to move in the depths of the bright eyes that continued to stare at me. Finally, he continued, "You mind if I ask you a question about your business, Mongo?"

It seemed an odd question, coming from Veil, and there was an uncharacteristically terse tone to his voice. "When have I ever minded you asking me about anything?"

"What's your-or your client's-interest in whether or not Interpol captures John Sinclair?"

"Are you kidding me? I already told you."

"Indulge me, Mongo. Tell me again, in detail, if you will."

"Sinclair used a little financial wizardry, which I don't understand, to rip off ten million dollars of funds earmarked for famine relief in the Sudan. The director of the philanthropic foundation that provided the money is just a bit pissed off about it. He's taking it personally, and he wants his own man on the scene to report to him on what's going down. I don't expect to find out anything he doesn't already know, but it seems he'll be perfectly satisfied just to get an independent report with my name on it. It's such a milk run that I'm embarrassed. I should be finished by the weekend. Harper's meeting me over there, and we'll split for Zermatt."

Veil grunted softly, then turned back to the medicine cabinet. He removed the compress, washed the cut with hydrogen peroxide, then applied an antiseptic salve. "How are Garth and Mary?" he asked in a flat tone.

"Just fine," I replied, staring at his reflection in the mirror. I had the distinct impression his mind was elsewhere. "Mary has a new album out and climbing the charts, and Garth's in Brussels taking care of some business for a client." I watched him apply a clean, smaller compress to the wound, tape it in place. "You might want to go for some stitches in that cut. It could leave a scar. You want me to drive you over to the hospital?"

He turned around, placed his hand gently on my shoulder. "Let's have some juice."

We went into the kitchen, and I sat down at the small, painted wood table. Veil set up two glasses, then retrieved a frosted pitcher of fresh grapefruit juice from the refrigerator. He poured for both of us, then sat down across from me. He sipped his drink, studying me over the rim of the glass.

"What's on your mind, Veil?"

Veil drained the glass and set it back down on the table. He sighed, shook his head slightly. I had the feeling he'd made some kind of decision-one he was not particularly comfortable with. "I'd like to offer you some gratuitous advice."

"You know I value any advice you have to offer, my friend. What is it?"

He poured himself more grapefruit juice, again fixed me with his steady gaze. "Steer clear of anything whatsoever that involves John Sinclair."

Suddenly, I felt a slight chill. I wasn't sure if it was an aftereffect of the exercise, or from the sudden rush of excitement I was experiencing. "Hey, you know this guy?"

Veil shifted his gaze to the glass in front of him, shook his head.

"Ever met him?"

"No. I just know what I read in the newspapers." Now he looked up at me, and I again had the impression that he was uncomfortable and that he was struggling with some private dilemma. "But I hear things too. I wish I could be more specific, but I can't. It's just a feeling. I know you think it's an easy job, Mongo, but maybe you should pass on this one. Don't go to Zurich."

My friend's uncharacteristic reticence was beginning to make me uncharacteristically annoyed with him. "Wow," I said, my tone just a millimeter or two short of sarcasm. "Now, there's some pretty straightforward gratuitous advice, Veil. I shouldn't go to Zurich because you hear things, and you have a feeling."

"Mongo-"

"Just what do you hear that I haven't heard, Veil? What's the word on the street regarding John Sinclair? Is there something even more awful about him I should know, aside from the fact that he'll starve children to line his pockets and that he has a nasty tendency to torture, maim, or kill anybody who gets in his way?"

"Mongo," Veil said in a slow, measured tone, "if you go to Zurich to investigate this matter-"

"I'm not investigating anything. I don't have a franchise to investigate anything outside of New York State. I'm going over there to politely ask Interpol and the Zurich police about their investigation."