Angelfire

EIGHTEEN

GOLDIE

Moments like the one we spend in the courtyard behind Russo’s place are precious. This is something I know from experience. They’re photographs I can take out and look at as I please. Well, holograms, actually-like on Star Trek-3-D, with scents and sounds and sensations. If I could, I’d live my life in a holodeck, which is, I suppose, why the opportunity has never presented itself. I’d go in and never come out. And while I was inside, I’d be anybody but Herman Goldman.

It’s quiet here, almost balmy after our sojourn on the Great Plains. And there’s no gusting wind. I lie on the hood of the defunct Fiat, aware that I am stealing this moment. Magritte is curled up next to me. Her aura waxes and wanes as we talk, our eyes on the ring of buildings, watching windows.

Doc sits on the back stoop of Russo’s building, watching the windows we can’t see. Watching us. Given what little I know about his family, this adds a blue tint to my hologram.

The sun has just snuffed itself when lights flicker feebly behind the windows of the building that faces Russo’s across the courtyard. We all tense up, clutching weapons more tightly.

My stolen moment evaporates.

Doc is on his feet, crossbow up and ready. “Perhaps we should take cover.” He gives the building behind him a worried glance. “They have been in there a long time.”

“Only seems like a long time,” I say, pulling myself upright.

The words have barely left my mouth when the metal door behind Doc scrapes open. He’s got the jitters so bad, he leaps off the stoop into the courtyard, pivoting in midair to draw down on the door. Fortunately for Cal, he doesn’t have an itchy trigger finger.

“Come on in,” Cal says. “We found Russo.”

“The horses?” I nod at our snoozing animals.

“Russo says they’ll be fine here. His neighbors, according to him, wouldn’t know how to ride a horse if they wanted to steal one.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. “But I’ll betcha they could probably figure out how to cook one.”

“Good point. Maybe you could do something to protect them?”

I fire off my most awesome ball-o’-fire to date and leave it swaddling the horses with a dangerous-looking veil of light. The poor animals are so exhausted, they barely notice. I notice that I do it with much less effort than before.

I am beyond surprise when we are ushered into a basement room to meet Howard Russo. “Holy cow, Blindman,” I pun, “your manager is a troll.”

Enid gives me a dark look from under his dreadlocks. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

The troll in question turns to look at us. His big milky eyes get even bigger and milkier when he sees Magritte, the vertical pupils squeezing shut against her glow.

“You got angelfire,” he croaks.

Angelfire. That’s one I haven’t heard before. Given the effect Magritte has on my various synapses, it’s appropriate. “Why’d you bring her here?” Russo asks.

“She’s protecting me from you,” says Enid.

“From me?” He blinks myopically.

“Shit-you are no way that stupid, Howard Russo. It’s my damned contract.”

The little grunter’s face goes gray. Oh, all right-it’s already gray; it goes grayer. “Whaddaya mean, your contract?”

“I mean that clause about repercussions. I play my music and weird shit happens. Things get all twisted. People get all twisted.”

Russo’s eyes kind of pinball off Enid’s face. Shifty little fellow. “Feedback … The contract … feeds back.” The words sound chewed on. He shakes a finger at Enid. “You shouldn’t play without… you know, without…”

“Permission?” offers Cal.

“Uh-huh. The contract is… it’s-it’s put together to protect the interests of the, uh, the management.”

“What about my interests?” Enid snarls. He points at Russo’s diminutive nose. “I can’t believe you’d do something like this to me.”

Russo blinks. “You signed. You were okay with it then.” “In the real world, Howard. Not in this damned Twilight Zone we’re living in.”

The grunter picks at a piece of lint on his tweed jacket. “So, don’t play.” He gives Enid a sly look out of his milky bug-eyes.

“Don’t play? That’s like saying ‘don’t breathe.’ Besides, there’s Maggie. I been having to make music to protect her.”

Russo’s eyes sort of snap to Enid’s face. “To what?”

“Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but it protects her from the Storm or the Source or whatever you want to call it.”

Russo looks vaguely puzzled. “You mean that big, black thing that, uh, hoovered up all the angelfire? The Dark?”

Enid nods. “Bottom line, Howard, I want out.”

“Out?”

“Of the contract. I came to tell you it ain’t legal no more. You’re gonna tear it up.”

Russo’s little gray face pales and he blinks rapidly several times. I have the loopy idea that he’s holding back tears. “Can’t do it,” he mumbles.

“You want me to tear you up instead?”

The grunter takes a step away from Enid and backs straight into Colleen, who snags the shoulder pads of his overlarge tweeds and holds him still. He cowers a little, but repeats, “Can’t do it. Not won’t do it-can’t.”

Colleen literally growls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cal leans down into Russo’s face. “It’s not as if you have a choice to make, Mr. Russo. This is simple: the contract was voided by the fact that it was altered after Enid signed it.”

Russo giggles-a strange, wheezy sound like a car that doesn’t want to turn over. “You talk like a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer.”

He sneezes away the giggles and sobers a little. “S’more than business,” he mutters, then pulls away from Colleen and shuffles over to the table, where he picks up the cigar butt and sticks it between his sharp, nasty little teeth.

Such panache.

He’s silent for a moment, chewing on his cigar butt. Then he stops and looks straight at Enid, suddenly seeming utterly human. “Look, Enid, I’m not the one you gotta deal with.”

“What do you mean, you’re not the one?” Enid asks. “Primal.”

“Primal,” Enid repeats.

“Third party to the contract, remember? Primal got a say.” “Shit, Howard, there’s no Primal Records anymore. The Storm put paid to that. There’s just you and me.”

The cigar butt hangs loosely in Russo’s mouth for a moment while his eyes move from Cal to Enid to Magritte. “You protect her, huh?”

And I thought my noodle produced non sequiturs.

“I could,” Enid said, “except for the fact that the damn contract makes my music feed back all over the place. I’m sick, Howard. And I’ve twisted the shit out of I don’t know how many innocent folks.”

Russo is startled. “Sick? How-sick?”

“Sick. As in dying. I play and it sucks the life out of me.

I don’t play and it shrivels up my soul. Rock and a hard place, Howie. And you put me there.”

Russo shakes his head hard enough to make it rattle. “Not me. Not me,” he mumbles. “Primal. There is a Primal. It- It’s Primal you gotta deal with.”

“Do you have the original contract?” Cal asks.

“Me? No. Primal got it. I only got a copy.”

“A copy you can’t get rid of?”

Russo’s eyes bug out even more than they are naturally inclined to do. “What?”

“You do, don’t you?” Enid presses. “You try to destroy it, but you can’t. You try to lose it; it won’t stay lost.”

Russo’s about chewed his cigar in two by now. He looks up at Enid and blinks. “Why d’you think I’m still in Chicago? Far as I can go. Right here.” He yanks the soggy butt out of his mouth and stabs it at the floor. Then he drops it and crushes it into the concrete with a bare foot.

Enid and Cal exchange glances, then Cal says, “And you’ve never tried to void it?”

“How?”

“Well, gee,” I say, “I’ll bet you’d want to go to the Ruby City with us, Mr. Cowardly Lion, sir, and see if we can’t get the Wizard to give you some ba-”

“Goldie…” Cal gives me a sideways glance (not completely devoid of humor) and shakes his head. “It does look as if you could benefit from a visit to Primal Records.”

Russo shakes his head. His eyes crinkle at the corners and get a little milkier. “No. Not goin’ into that place. Not goin’ downtown.”

Russo clearly has some serious angst about the Bubble. I gotta admit, it weirds me out no end, because I can’t tell what’s inside it. I figure maybe Howie knows, so I ask. “What’s downtown, Howie? Is it … is the Dark downtown? Is that what makes the Bubble?”

He gapes at me. “The Dark? Here?” He’s laughing, sort of, but his eyes are darting around as if the Dark might just jump right out and bite him. “What kind of crazy question is that? Nobody knows where the Dark comes from. Nobody’d want to know.”

Except us. I slant a glance at Cal. Your turn.

Cal says, “You’re stuck here. You said it yourself. If you want to get unstuck, you need to void that contract. And given how things change, we may need a guide. You help us, we help you.”

“You help me?”

Cal nods.

Russo seems to consider that for a moment, then develops a profound case of Gumby shoulders. “Why get unstuck? No place to go.”

Cal leans down into his face. “We know a place you can go.”

“Cal’s right,” Enid chips in. “Maggie and I just came from there. It’s called the Preserve. It was a safe place for us, Howard. Until I got so damn sick. If I can get free of this contract, it’ll be safe for us again.”

“Just show us where we can find Primal Records,” says Cal.

“Now?” Russo squeaks.

“We’re in a bit of a hurry,” I say.

Russo blanches. Except for the tips of his pointy little ears, which turn a darker shade of blue. “Oh, no, no. Not now. S’after hours.”

That’s a chuckle. “They still keep business hours?” I ask. “Old habits,” says Russo, fidgeting.

“Sorry,” says Cal. “I don’t buy that. You don’t know how to get in, do you?”

Russo leans toward Cal, his eyes shifting to the shadows. “I know how to get in, couns’ler. But you don’t wanna go out at night around here. Trust me.”

About as far as I could throw you, I think.

“Fine. I’d rather do this fully rested anyway.” Cal lays a hand on Russo’s tweedy shoulder. “But tomorrow morning you’re taking us to see the Wizard.”

Russo looks at the hand, then back at Cal, and giggles again. “Yeah. T’morrow. See the Wizard.”

We are to spend an uneasy night in Russo’s third-floor suite of rooms. There is a large, rather ostentatious office with its own minimally working bathroom, a wet bar, and what amounts to a parlor tucked into a corner beside the front doors. Through a second set of doors a small but fully furnished living room with a fireplace, and a large bedroom with a second bath, line up along the front of the building. A pocket kitchen opens up kitty-corner to the bedroom door. Only a close look at the accouterments in the living room reveal that the marble hearth and parquet floors are faux. It’s been slightly “grunterfied.” Every window is covered with thick curtains, none of which seem to match. They are velvet, linen, brocade. One is a quilt.

There is no moon visible tonight, but the faerie Bubble illuminates the darkness much as Chicago’s bowl of light pollution must have done once. When I pull the quilt aside from a living room window, I can see it shining dully above the rooftops about two or three blocks to the east. I try to touch it, figuratively speaking-try to lay psychic hands on it, to feel its texture. It resists me. After pulling me here, its silence is unnerving and annoying. I’m pretty sure this is what it feels like to be a cat toy.

It clearly makes Russo ferklempt. He doesn’t go near the window; he doesn’t look at the window. This strikes me as odd, because the Bubble’s just not that bright. It puts out a lot less light than Magritte does, and he doesn’t seem at all reluctant to look at her, even though she makes his eyes water. In fact, he can’t seem to take his eyes off her, which makes me nervous.

“Close that,” he whines at last, as if he can’t stand the pale wash of ruddy light that seeps in.

I oblige, letting the quilt fall. “What’s the matter, Howie? Don’t like the view?”

He just grunts. Typical.

Cal has been watching Russo as closely as I have. “What can you tell me about that?” he asks, nodding toward the window.

“What?” Russo asks, then fills his mouth so full of jerky that he couldn’t answer if he wanted to.

Cal’s mouth quirks wryly. I’m sure he’s seen similar delaying tactics in the courtroom. “The bubble of power over the Loop. What do you know about it?”

Russo chews noisily and methodically and stares at Cal for a minute without answering. Then he swallows, licks his lips, also noisily, and shakes his bald head. “Nothing.”

“You don’t know how it’s generated? Where it came from? How it’s maintained?”

A shrug.

“I think you do know,” suggests Cal. “And you don’t like it. Why?”

Russo’s eyes glaze over a little then roll back over to Magritte, where they come into sharp focus.

I snap to immediate attention and move to stand so that Maggie and I are nearly touching. I don’t know if it’s her or me or both of us, but I feel as if slugs are crawling all over me. I glance at her face; she is clearly creeped out by Russo’s interest.

He stops chewing and points a gnarled finger at her. “D’I know you? Sure I know you.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I heard Enid talk about you, is all.”

“Watch’er name-Maggie, is it?”

“Magritte,” says Enid. He’s perched on the arm of Russo’s couch, tucking into a can of hash. “Her name’s Magritte. We go way back. Further than you and me. You never met that I know of.”

The grunter’s eyes gleam with what I take as recognition, and his wide mouth curves into a grin. “Magritte? Shit, yeah, we met! You’re Choir Girl, right? Worked the Rainbow Club. Had a room upstairs.” He snaps his fingers and points again. “Green velvet. Green velvet and a-a crystal unicorn in the window. Little colored sparkles all over everything.” He giggles hideously. “No surprise you don’t ’member me. Didn’t stand out in a crowd back then. But I remember you.” He looks right at me, still grinning. “She’s good.”

Suddenly, I’m struggling to breathe and wanting to simultaneously shed tears and pound the living crap out of him. Then my hands are around his neck. And weird green flames are shooting from my fingertips. And Howard is shrieking like a banshee.

Cal, Colleen, and Enid leap in harmony to stop me from killing the little shit. They loosen my fingers, but he continues to scream like a reject from Gremlins.

“My eyes! My eyes! Light hurts!”

I so want to wad Howard Russo into a little blue-gray ball and shoot a three-pointer into the toilet, but the others prevail, tearing me away from him.

He scuttles into a corner, eyes wide and blinking. “What? Wha’d I do? She’s a hooker, for chrissake! Doin’ a job. I’m just a fuckin’ customer.”

Poor choice of words. I leap again, but Enid and Cal’s arms are tangled around me and Enid’s voice comes tight and low in my ear: “Ignore him. He’s a stupid shit. He’s just a stupid shit. Let it go.” I’m not sure which of us he’s talking to.

We are like that-an off-balance human pretzel-when Magritte screams. The sound wrenches me inside out and spins all of us around.

Her face is frozen in terror, mouth open, eyes sightless and wide. She hears the Storm’s countless Voices, sees its long shadow, feels its dark hands. I know, because I feel it, too. The Storm is rising in my head-in my soul-and if I don’t move fast, it will literally tear Magritte and me apart.

Freed, I cover the space between us in two strides, but she is being lifted toward the ceiling, the Storm’s dark fingers tugging at her. I leap and lock my arms around her; her hands tangle in my hair.

We fall.

Enid sings, desperately, as if his life depends on it. Which it does. No less does mine. I concentrate everything I have on holding Magritte, on shielding her, dragging her so deep inside Herman Goldman that the Source will lose her and I won’t. The Voices shriek at us to let go, to give up and give in.

To come home.

Maggie shudders, her back arching, and screams again, obscuring the beat of her heart-the sound I’m focused on.

“What is it?” Colleen is shouting. She has a crossbow in her hands-useless against this.

Cal and Doc are frozen, watching. They know what it is. They also know they are defenseless against it. Only Enid and I are armed for this enemy.

When I think we’re too late, Magritte relaxes and goes nearly limp in my arms. The darkness subsides; the predator growls and returns to its lair. Where? God, we could be right on top of it.

When I can breathe and think again, I’m still lying on the floor with Magritte trembling beneath me. I’m trembling, too, because I’ve felt that black, slimy touch before and because we now know how much a momentary lapse of concentration can cost.

I utter uncounted I’m sorrys to Magritte for having abandoned her in a careless moment of rage, but she blames herself. “Wasn’t thinking,” she murmurs over and over. “I let go. I let go.”

She can’t stop shaking, and nothing either Enid or I can do seems capable of erasing the terror in her eyes. It bleeds all over both of us, making us quake inside and share furtive, guilty glances.

We commandeer Russo’s bedroom and install her in it on his ludicrously king-size bed. Enid vows he will sit up all night and sing to her if he has to. Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the bed-guitar in his lap, harmonica in his pocket-he’s ready if she needs him to sing. I pick a deity and pray he won’t have to sing-again. And that the notes he’s let loose already haven’t found a living target.

I lie down beside Magritte, not touching her, but close enough to feel her warmth. I’m afraid to touch her. Remembering Russo’s filth is one thing, but the Source, I know, reaches beyond the body and lays hands on the soul. But from where?

She doesn’t sleep, but she seems to drowse, even to dream, her eyes moving behind the nearly translucent lids.

Time passes. Enid mumbles to himself, trying to stay awake. His fingers brush the strings of his guitar now and again, sending up a yearning whisper of notes. I prop myself against the headboard, and get lost in memories- mine or Maggie’s; they’re indistinguishable. They’re dark memories, gray memories, punctuated by periods of colorful, inexplicable elation and stark, bleak pain. As I sort my way through them I look down at her and find her watching me.

“Enid,” she says, without looking away. “Go get some sleep.”

He shifts position with the squeak of strings. “Mags, I promised.”

“Enid, please. It’s okay. Goldie’s here.”

He stands, turning to look at her-at us. She returns his gaze and something passes silently between them.

“It’s what you want?” he asks.

Her eyes come back to meet mine. “It’s what I need.” Enid gives me the briefest of glances before he slips from the room and closes the door behind him.

“Why?” I ask, wanting to know before reason is completely blotted out by something much stronger.

“You know why.” She puts a hand up and brushes the tangle of hair away from my eyes so she can read them. “I want to be clean again. And so do you.”

“Maggie, I’m …” I’m what-unstable? Crazy? Dangerous?

“What I need,” she repeats.

Through the long night the words echo in my head, until I find myself speaking them, whispering them to her again and again. And somewhere in there, “need” transforms into “love.” Transforms like a lunatic turned wizard, or a hooker turned angel. And I half believe that what we do really is stronger than the Storm.