Mark Stone - The Judas Line

For a moment or two he resisted, his big shoulders tense, hard as basalt, but slowly he melted in my grasp and hugged back. Laughter began to rack his body, hitching the big muscles of his back and stomach, an explosion of ironic mirth that leapt from him to me until we both stood shaking in each other’s embrace.

“A priest and the Anti-Christ walk into a bar …” I began.

Mike disengaged, wiping his eyes, and punched me lightly in the gut. “You’re right, it sounds like a bad joke. Humor from the Apocalypse.” He held a hand up, dangling the truck keys from a finger. “Come on, let’s go.”

That day we arrived in Denver, where I had hidden another spooker buried deep in the earth in a vacant lot I owned on Colfax Street just west of I-25. This time, instead of summoning an elemental and having a nice confab, I just had Earth bring the box to the surface where I used the molecular knife to cut it open. Halfway through the thread broke and I had to spool more out. At the rate I broke the threads, I guess I had another three hundred years before I needed more.

Inside the box was another thirty thousand dollars. However, the money wasn’t the prize; the false ID was. The previous spooker had a phony ID I’d created in ’97, but it was for Tariq al-Muhammad, which would be a red flag in the post 9/11 world, so I needed a new one in case I came under scrutiny. The Jude Oliver persona was burned and I needed to become someone new.

Say hello to Morgan Heart.

Morgan had a SSN, passport and even an old Colorado driver’s license, as well as a Mastercard and Visa. The cover was flawless, the best money could buy.

“Can I see that?” asked Mike, pointing at the knife.

I handed the cylinder over. “Careful. You’ll slice yourself up a treat if you’re not careful.”

“Been kind of curious about this.” He pushed the button. “Don’t see anything.”

“One molecule thick is far too small for the naked eye, but it’s there.” I smiled as Mike gingerly handled the cylinder.

“What powers it? I imagine it must use a lot of juice, keeping the thread carefully spooled and contained in the magnetic bottle.” Mike handed the knife back.

“It’s surprisingly energy efficient, actually. Runs on two watch batteries and they only need to be changed once a month under normal usage.”

He stood and brushed the dirt of his knees. Instead of his usual black outfit with collar, he had dressed like a lumberjack-blue jeans, red-checked flannel shirt, boots and a brown Gore-Tex jacket. We had plenty money to spare. I could have dressed us in Armani.

“I’m surprised, Mike. You haven’t asked me what’s next.”

“We’re going to get the Grail, I know that,” he said quietly. “Now that I understand what’s at stake, I know we have to see this thing through.”

“Yeah.” I pocketed all the IDs except the driver’s license and stood, leaving the box where it lay. “Just making sure.”

“No worries, Jude.”

“Morgan.”

“What?”

I held up the outdated driver’s license. “It’s Morgan Heart now. My Jude Oliver persona is history now.”

“Morgan Heart?”

“Yeah.”

“Morgan Heart ?”

“You said that already.”

A cheesy smile spread across his face. “That is the lamest alter-ego I’ve ever heard. Sounds like a porn name.”

“It’s what was available.” Grumble grumble. “What do you know from porn names?”

“I had a life before my calling, Morgan . You would’ve been better off with Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent!” His laughter bounced off the tired brick buildings that surrounded the garbage-strewn lot. People walking by on the sidewalk paused for a moment to stare at the big unshaven man with the funky moustache.

“Laugh it up, Mr. Funny Guy,” I mumbled, flashing a rueful smile. Whatever may come, Mike was still my friend and all was right in the universe.

The laughter wound down like a spring that was slowly losing tension. “Okay, Morgan, where to now?”

“To finish what we started, man.” I stared at the cold gray sky, watching the plumes of my breath billow forth. “We go to Bend.”

Bend, Oregon. Why did it have to be Bend? Personally I would’ve rather gone back to Odessa, and that place was a pit. Bend parks itself on the high plains desert area east of Eugene and just north of the Deschutes National Forest. In the summer, the grass is dry, the juniper trees look scrofulous and the only thing growing that’s not a bilious sage green lives right next to the river that runs through town where all the expensive houses are located. Living in one of those makes you the elite among cockroaches.

Okay, a little harsh, a little pessimistic. But not by much.

The old truck trundled past downtown where the touristy shops and restaurants are located, catering to whatever yuppie trade there might be and took us to the outskirts, where the real people with real information could be found. The information we sought couldn’t be provided by the drinkers of appletinis and cosmopolitans.

Feighan’s stood on the crossroads of Hopeless and Helpless, catering to people who liked their beer cold, their TV sports played at volumes even rock bands would cringe at and prided themselves on the thickness of their chest hair. That included the women.

We walked into a room lit by bad fluorescents and cheesy neon beer signs. Even though it was a hair past noon there were at least twenty people drinking, playing pool or watching satellite TV, drinks clutched in fists, complexions sallow and tired. Mike and I moseyed up to the bar (always wanted to say that) and sat with elbows resting on a none-too-clean bar top.

“What can I get you folks?” asked a youngish bartender whose ponytail barely contained his curly black hair. A yellow t-shirt with FEIGHAN’S stretched tight across his broad shoulders and chest.

I held up two fingers. “Buds, please.”

When the bartender came back, I held up a hundred dollar bill. “The change is yours for some information.”

He smiled, revealing very even, very white teeth through the scruff on his face. “You cops?”

Mike shook his head. “Nope.”

The young man took my hundred. “You guys watch too many cop shows. I would’ve been happy with a ten.” Chuckling, he made change and stuffed the bills in his front pocket. “It’s good business to cooperate with the cops. What do you want to know?”

“Wonderful,” I groused. Mike took a sip of bear to hide his smile.

“Really, mister, bartenders aren’t like in the movies. We’re just average Joes looking to make a few dollars here and there. Just ask your questions.”

A soft sniggering came from my left. It was a wooly old man in a Red Sox ball cap sporting a walrus moustache. He seemed to find the whole conversation humorous. A second later Mike joined in.

Red faced, I asked, “We’re looking for a biker gang by the name of Demon’s Blood.”

The bartender’s tan faded. “You don’t want to mess with those idiots, dude. Not if you want to keep your nose attached to your face.”

Mike piped up. “Bad guys?”

“The worst,” the old fellow next to me chimed in, his voice made husky by cigarettes. “They don’t come into town much, don’t shit where they eat, you know, but them boys like to raise a ruckus all through the state. Heard they messed up a fella in Lebanon so bad he can’t walk no more.”

I kept my eyes on the bartender. “Where do they hang their hats?”

“Mister, you’re committing suicide and I won’t help a man kill himself.” Two fingers dipped into his front pocket and started to pull out the folding change he’d stuffed there.

It was Mike who put an end to the bartender’s resistance. “Son,” he drawled. “If we don’t take care of the business we have with the gang, a lot of people are going to wish they committed suicide.” From his flat top to his boots, he radiated confidence and resolve.