Weirdbook #35. Adrian Cole

more than a few brushes with—my gut feeling was that they worked for someone, or something, very out of step with the run of the mill Mob in this town. If they got hold of that guitar, it was going to be bad news for the rest of us. Serious bad news.

      Trench coat two upped his bid by a big heap of dollars. I knew Henry was beaten. I waited to see if he would raise the bid. Stan turned and looked at me, his face grim. I was getting the feeling that he and Henry would end up doing something stupid to get that guitar. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to start trading bullets with the trench coats, wherever that might take place. Likely they’d have a bunch of reinforcements outside.

      I put in a bid that was way over what the trench coat had offered. I could see him looking across at me, his eyes narrowed like he was focusing some kind of insane energy through them that would excoriate me and melt my bones down into glue. My bid had done the trick, though. It was one big pile of dough, but it had won me the guitar. Henry and Stan fought their way to me, both their faces beaming.

      “That’s a lot of money, Nick,” said Henry.

      I don’t make a big thing of it, but I have a lot of money tucked away in a very private bank. How I got it is a long story, and this isn’t the place to go into all that (maybe some other time) but let’s just say it was no problem for me to scoop the guitar without denting my private hoard.

      By the time I’d got the guitar and had it wrapped up, the two trench coats were gone, though I didn’t expect it to be the last we saw of them.

      * * * *

      Sten-Gun Stan, Henry and I found a quiet little dive not far from the waterfront where we could chew over the events of the day. As far as we knew, we hadn’t been followed.

      “So what gives with this weird guitar I’ve just spent an arm and a leg buying?” I asked them over a round of iced beers. “My guess is, it’s one of those artifacts of power I keep stumbling over.”

      “Exactly!” said Henry, glancing around into the gloom of the bar. Nothing much stirred. It would be like that until round about midnight when a scuffle or two might break out.

      “Well, I don’t want the damned thing,” I growled. “I know you were keen to get hold of it, so you’re welcome to it, Henry. Where did it come from?”

      “It’s been lost for a while. I’m not sure, but it was used by a rock band who bought it off some old freak who was supposed to be guarding it for—well, even freakier guys. The thing has power and must have spooked him so he took the money. It was a bad omen for the band. They ended up on skid row and the guitar disappeared until now.”

      “What is it?”

      “It’s a dual purpose mechanism,” he said, leaning forward and injecting as much mystery and unease into his voice as he could. “If you play it one way, gently, it can open certain—doors. It’s also a weapon. If you play the Entropic Chord, it can be very dangerous. Destructive. You can imagine what it would be like in the wrong hands. Like the forces of darkness. Those thugs we bumped into at the auction were their hired hands.”

      “So what are you aiming to do with it?”

      He looked embarrassed. “Well, it’s a kind of a rescue mission. Tricky and it could be a bit of a mess, but I have to take it on.”

      “Rescue?” I said, sipping my beer. “Who’s in a jam? Anyone I know?”

      Stan was grinning. “No need to go all shy on us, Henry. Tell the man!”

      “It’s a friend of mine—”

      “A girl,” said Stan, enjoying Henry’s discomfort.

      “How’s she different from all your other surfing girlfriends?” I asked.

      “Apart from being exquisitely beautiful,” Stan said on Henry’s behalf, “she has the sweetest voice you’ve ever heard. Supernatural if you ask me.”

      “She’s missing,” said Henry. “I’ve heard nothing from her for almost a week. It’s not like her.”

      “She’s not run out on you?”

      Henry shook his head. “No, no. She wouldn’t. I think she’s been abducted.”

      Those remote alarm bells that ring at the back of your mind sometimes were starting to ring louder in mine. A singer, abducted? This sounded familiar.

      “I think I know where she is,” Henry went on. “She’s not here, in our world. Nor the Pulpworld. She’s in a place that’s kind of in between. A secret place held together by dark magic. The guitar can open a door to it. I’m going in after her.”

      “In your submarine?”

      Both Henry and Stan were shaking their heads. “Not possible,” said Henry. “This realm is protected. Can’t get anything in, other than flesh and blood, or something strongly tainted with magic. The guitar is neutral—whoever uses it suffuses it with power. It’s the one thing I can take with me. So I owe you, big time, Nick. Now at least I have a chance of finding Suki.”

      I didn’t quite drop my drink, but I did set it down unsteadily on the table. “Suki? Would that be Suki Yosimoto?”

      Henry’s face lit up. “You know her?”

      “She has a friend, another singer, name of Maria Mozzari?”

      “Yes! They’re inseparable.”

      “Both missing, yeah, I know.” I told him about the connection with FiFi Cherie’s night club and the little job I’d been given. Henry’s grin widened, but I wasn’t feeling so good about all this.

      “So we’re in this together,” he said as if some of the clouds around him had thinned.

      “I’m not sure I care for this escapade. You say nothing can be taken into this other realm? What about my guns, my knives? I’m naked without them.” It was true. I could handle myself in a fist fight, but from my experience of other realms, you needed a whole lot more than brawn to take on the kind of critters you’d find in there. And if Carmella Cadenza was behind this, she’d have a bodyguard to match the Pope.

      “We’ve got the guitar,” said Henry. “And the element of surprise. They won’t be expecting us.”

      “Well, that warms the cockles of my heart,” I said.

      * * * *

      In my apartment, I prepared myself as meticulously as I could for this little jaunt into Whereverland. No guns? Hell, I must be getting senile. I stripped to the waist and applied a certain type of paint in a certain type of way across certain parts of my torso. Once it was dry I put on a shirt I only wore for certain occasions, one that was supposed to be charmed against the agents of darkness (although I had some doubts as to its veracity) and finally I slipped on a necklace and snapped wristbands on each arm. Looking at myself in the mirror, I grimaced. If my pal Rizzie Carter, the local Police Chief, saw me in this get up he’d think I was heading on stage for a pantomime, but it was worth it if it could deflect the kind of nastiness I was about to bump into.

      I met up with Henry again in an insalubrious part of town. He wore the tightest pair of black leather pants I’d ever clapped eyes on like he’d been poured into them and a black shirt to match—it even had black buttons.

      “Less chance of being seen,” he explained. Across his shoulder he’d slung a black leather case, long and narrow, the prized guitar secreted within. Overall he looked like a runaway from an Iron Maiden concert. I thought maybe I looked a bit like Robert Mitchum’s kid brother, but I doubt if Henry had ever heard of the guy.

      Darkness had already dropped over the city as Henry led us through the streets to a remote place where, mercifully, not many of the lights overhead worked. There were a few people about, night owls, but they paid us no heed. Henry was heading for the place where Suki Yosimoto had last been seen, as far as he knew. I had some pretty good contacts in these rat-runs, but Henry had his own eyes and ears.