Hex-Rated Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Jason Ridler

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-59780-903-0

  Cover artwork by John Stanko

  Cover design by Claudia Noble

  Printed in the United States of America

  Thanks to Nick Mamatas for connecting the dots, Kate Marshall for her vigilant eye, Jeremy Lassen and Cory Allyn at Night Shade Books for taking the chance, and to all y’all reading this right now. Cheers!

  This novel is dedicated to Inta Mezgailis Ridler (1938-2013).

  From a black and white TV in the laundry room, she’d feed my heart and brain doses of Star Trek, Rockford Files, Kolchak, Mike Hammer, and the Twilight Zone while she chain smoked Viscounts and folded clothes.

  When I started writing, she sent me a bunch of second-hand Mickey Spillane novels. She’d enjoyed them more than the acclaimed work of Hammett and Chandler. When I asked why, she laughed. “Oh, way more sex and violence! Good stuff!”

  Thanks for the inspiration, Mum. Here’s to the good stuff.

  “In this city a person can hide from God for a long time.”

  —Steven Erickson, Zeroville

  “The so-called glamour queens are short lived. Where are they now? Take out your old movie magazines and trace the queens of yesterday. There are a lot of yesterdays for them but no tomorrows . . .”

  —Ed Wood, Jr., The Hollywood Rat Race

  CHAPTER 1

  I RAN A CROOKED PATH THROUGH THE HEADSTONES AS IF CHASED by a drunk minotaur, my ancient oxblood wingtips kicking up forgotten trinkets left for long-departed souls. As I was leaping over a burial mound, my shoe slipped on something round.

  I smacked a tombstone with my shoulder, spun like a top, then crashed back down to earth chest-first, just a bee’s wing away from a foundation stone that would have cut my head open.

  “OW!”

  If Edgar could see me, late to his funeral, he’d be furious.

  At eye level was the dirty culprit: a fat 8-ball, twice the size of the kind you’d find in any billiard hall. A stray parting gift for a lost loved one.

  I couldn’t resist. Running late and elbows in grave dirt, I picked it up, shook it twice and asked, “All right, Magic 8-Ball, will today’s adventure turn out in my favor?”

  I turned it over. The murky glass bottom swirled with a blue liquid before a white message rose to the top. “Outlook not so good.”

  I smirked. “Everyone’s a critic.”

  I tossed the toy to the ground and sprang back to life, on down the dusty green alley of the cemetery until I saw the two members of the work crew I’d met yesterday. They pointed to my left, and I ran through the stones to find the small funeral procession gathered around a fresh grave.

  I hit the brakes to avoid crashing into anyone, and dusted the dirt off of my freshly rented duds. I coughed, but all eyes were on me like white on rice. “Very sorry, everyone.” I switched to a wary smile and heavy eyes. “Had car trouble en route. I guess the only funeral you should be late for is your own.” I mimicked a “rim-shot” in the air, complete with sound effects a la Buddy Rich. The half-truth-and-joke combo usually worked to charm folks out of distress.

  Here? The crowd in black glared. Not at me, or my patter, but at my outfit. A baby-blue tuxedo, last year’s prom sensation, was all I could afford on my own dime. This funeral had sucked my reserves down to the marrow. The lapels flared as sharp and wide as the bellbottom trousers, which hugged me a little too snug for such a somber occasion. Grave-dirt skids no doubt made the whole ensemble filthy in the eyes of my social betters. The small gathering’s disdain was cold for July in LA, but the funeral was my responsibility, and they held their tongues. They could release their nastiness beyond my earshot. Though I reckoned they’d be of familiar vintages:

  “Can you believe James Brimstone came to a funeral dressed for a high school prom?”

  “He must be forty and he’s showing off his . . . you-know-what?”

  “Smudges? On his funeral outfit? Edgar would be disgusted.”

  I nodded at Father Creedy, who began his sermon while I squirmed in the sun. What I wouldn’t do for a Dubonnet on the rocks and the darkness of my office, but there was work to do, parts to play, and promises to keep.

  The cemetery grunts had done a fine job of digging a hole for Edgar’s funeral, a deep, tight six-by-three frame. Above the hole, a cherry wood coffin was mounted, wrapped in chains and padlocks upon Edgar’s wishes and courtesy of my bone-dry checkbook. My mentor was many things, but generous with lucre wasn’t even last on the list. On tour with the Electric Magic Circus, I once joked with Jane Tarzan, our unbeatable wrestling angel, that Edgar’s nickname ought to be “Frugal the Ungenerous,” whose change purse could only be opened by Hercules himself. When Edgar found out about the gag, as he always did, he had me cleaning outhouses and digging holes for elephant dung instead of learning how to execute a Paris drop, escape from a locked safe, or use a deck of cards like a weapon. It was worth it to make Jane laugh, though I suspect she only laughed because she knew that no one but the first god of lies could keep a secret from my mentor.

  LA’s merciless three o’clock sun scorched Inglewood Park Cemetery as it sidled up close to watch the Amazing Edgar Vance’s very last public appearance. Proving to an intimate audience that even he could not escape the grave. My tux baked the sweat out of me like a rotisserie chicken, inking the powder blue into ugly sweat spots, as if my tux hid leaking bullet wounds.

  Father Creedy moaned on.

  My smile was at half-mast, but I wanted them to look at me, the cheap, lousy fellow who’d done such a crap job. I was human flash for their scorn. Not the casket and its locks and chains . . . which I could taste. One of the worst things about being Edgar’s whipping boy was this delicious side-effect of his training in the actual arcane, the disturbing and nightmarish world of sorcery, magic, and dark arts older than the blood of dead gods. I could taste real magic. And it never tasted good. Just a thousand different flavors of awful. Those chains and locks had enough mojo on them that my mouth felt like it had been sucking dirt for the past hour, but I kept it shut.

  Promises to keep, and all that jazz.

  Father Creedy’s whistling voice cut through the heat. “. . . and so we consecrate Edgar William Vance to the ground, so that he may find his place in eternity at the righteous side of God.” Across the hole, his sad eyes perked without joy.

  My half-smile froze. I’d told Creedy, whose real name was Chip Toledo, if that was a real name anywhere but LA, to cut the “righteous” out of his sermon. Actors always make big words sound threatening. Bad actors give them menace. And Chip was no Olivier.

  I twisted the plastic ring on my left pinky, a faded green toy I’d held onto from the very first dint I’d made in the world of crime: stealing from a vending machine with a penny I’d gimmicked with a kite string. It also served as a signal to “Father”
Creedy to shut his pie hole because he was making an ass of himself, and that further attempts would result in his commission being cut another fifteen percent.

  “And now,” Father Creedy said, “is there anyone who would like to say a few final words?”

  Smoothly, my hands dropped in front of my privates, because the sweat stain was starting to leak downward. But just as I opened my mouth—

  “I’d like to speak.” Mick Fletcher walked close to the grave, dressed in dire tie, jacket, shirt and pants, a human black hole. His vulture neck protruded from his collar, and his stare cut across the casket’s surface, aimed strait for my heart, fuzzy eyebrows set on “arch.” My balls itched.

  “Edgar was the greatest performer I ever saw.” Everyone nodded, dutifully, myself included, but that didn’t break Mick’s glare. “Greatest escape artist since Houdini. Better magician than Blackstone. And he cared, you know? He cared about magic and those that loved it.” More nods. More glare. “Even if some of us didn’t love it as much as we should.”

  Mick stepped back, and I enjoyed the image of him surrounded by headstones. He was Edgar’s greatest fan, and a royal pain in the ass. Edgar did love magic. It was all he loved. Mick would try and impress Edgar with a new card trick or pigeon gimmick. Edgar would study him seriously, give him backhanded advice that would have been an insult if Mick hadn’t been so enamored, and after the poor guy was led out of Vance Mansion, I’d have to endure Edgar’s cackles and snide shots about “Poor old Mick the Mark.” Edgar held him beneath contempt, but enjoyed using him for free labor at shows, the devoted disciple who never knew he was, in fact, the master’s pet rube.

  But it took one to know one, so I couldn’t hate Mick as much as Edgar. Hell, I’d been just like Mick, just the professional variety. At least until I quit Edgar’s schemes. This funeral was the last.

  A stunning, bottle-blonde thirty-year-old in horn-rimmed glasses and baby-doll good looks approached next, the kind of beauty that worked in B films until she was old enough to play a mother and had to find a different vocation for beauty and presence. She wore a starched plaid skirt, pink blouse, and mascara melted into her blush. Good old Debbie Faye.

  “On behalf of Mayor Yorty,” Debbie said with the commanding tone of stage performances from yesteryear, “I would like to thank the late Edgar Vance for his charity work with the city, especially at the Children’s Hospital of Los Angeles.” Debbie stopped there, since she knew the truth and kept it quiet: Edgar’s charity work had largely been doing a balloon animal for publicity shots. Then his “trusted manservant KipKip,” me dressed in banana leaves and a mask like some stray character from The Jungle Book, would spend all day doing “Pick for Me” and “Is this Your Card?” for a dozen bald-headed kids and burned teens while Edgar and Suitcase Sam Yorty had afternoon delights at The Hairy Tarantula. I missed those kids.

  The mayor’s klaxon stepped back, and Father Creedy coughed. “Anyone else?” His New York accent had begun to creep through his faux-Irish brogue, so I nodded and stepped to the edge of the grave.

  “I’m glad you’re all here,” I said, and there were a handful of snorts and more daggered silences. “I’m James Brimstone, and I worked with Edgar back when I was eye level to a slug. I apologize for my tardiness, but my Dodge Dart doesn’t run on magic. If it did. I’d have stray coin for a better suit. As I’m sure you know, Edgar Vance was among the greatest magicians of his age. He performed around the world and entertained millions of people for over forty years.” Gentle nods. “I could regale you with stories and legends of Edgar’s past, but I’d be breaking the magician’s code of honor, and the last thing we need is for Edgar’s ghost coming back to harass anyone.” One lady sniffled, then laughed. “Now, about the chains and locks.”

  Their attention was mine.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you they come from Edgar’s own private collection. The locks were crafted by Theo Faberge, of the famous eggs, and Edgar spent his life trying to pick them. The chains are the very same worn by Houdini during his very last and near-fatal performance. They were the only restrictions he never bested. Edgar thought such gear would be fitting on his final day above the soil. Should you ever see Edgar, in dreams or passing on the street, you will know that he not only beat death, but outdid the great Houdini, too.”

  Mild laughter. Time for the hammer to fall.

  I cranked my smile to 100 watts. “You’ll also notice the cherry wood coffin, also part of Edgar’s instructions. Now, Edgar had no family except his millions of fans. And his estate is now property of the good folks at the Magic Castle . . . but I was made executor of his will.”

  No one breathed.

  “You can imagine that the cemetery would like to be paid for all their hard work.”

  The crowd squirmed.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not asking for donations at a funeral. That would be crass. But I wanted to let you know that I recently opened up my own business. As of today, James Brimstone is a fully licensed private investigator in the state of California, and sole proprietor of the Odd Job Squad Investigative Services. I’m sure you saw the ad in this month’s Los Angeles Free Press?”

  Their glares would have melted tombstones.

  “Having trouble with a neighbor’s dog? Ex-husband being a dope with alimony? The Odd Job Squad can handle it. That’s the James Brimstone guarantee!”

  Muttered curses swelled while angry grievers tossed flowers into the grave. “You’re a no good, dirty shill, James Brimstone!” one of them said. I didn’t look up to verify who, since whoever it was spoke for all. “But wait, there’s more! Today you get the Friends of Edgar Vance discount!”

  Hisses and swears hit me like rotten tomatoes. Shamefaced, I just stared at the coffin as they walked away from the horrible man who would ruin a funeral with a sales pitch. “Damn you, Brimstone!” some old lady cried. My eyes were down in full hangdog routine.

  In short, everything was coming up aces. That Magic 8-Ball could suck a lemon.

  Then it was just me and Father Creedy, AKA Chip Toledo.

  “That was some pitch, man,” Chip said. “You really want those squares to hate you.”

  No, I just need them to leave thinking I’m a rotten son of a bitch and Edgar is dead. “I had to distract them from your amazing acting, Chip,” I said. “You were stealing the show from a dead man.”

  “Really?” he said, full Bronx accent now assaulting my ears. Now he was just Chip Toledo, out-of-work actor on his hour off from slinging coffee at the StarLight Diner. “Could you put that in writing, man? See, there’s an audition for this musical called Godsweet, and they need a priest who’s kinda groovy and—”

  The crowd shuffled away through the stones, past the gravediggers. “I’ll make sure to send it with your last payment.” A dusty taste in my mouth, sour and bright and strong . . . a taste of magic.

  Chip clapped his hands. “Out of sight. Acting is my freak, you know, James?”

  No one was looking back, but I needed to be sure. “Chip, please keep up the act a little longer--”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean no disrespect.”

  “Just stand here and be still until we can say one last goodbye.”

  Still was not Chip’s strong suit. While sweat trickled seeking new crevasses in my neck and groin, he fussed with his collar, cracked his knuckles, and scratched the back of his head like a stray mutt with ticks. “You got a cigarette?”

  The sourness came from no direction I could sense. It was a presence, like the coming of a storm before the first raindrop. Then it was gone.

  I exhaled. “Does this look like the venue for a smoke break?”

  “Hell, sorry, James. But I could really use one.”

  “You may find it hard to believe, ‘Father Creedy,’ but I never enjoyed the taste of my lungs being barbecued.”

  “Just asking.”

  I could hear the 405 hum in the distance like a second pulse. The rest of the day loomed. It would be nice to stay i
n a cemetery. I always found them peaceful. Even been known to take a date to them when there wasn’t a horror film on at the local theater. But Edgar’s funeral soured me on the idea that they were sanctuaries. Edgar had that effect on people.

  I waved over the graveyard crew.

  Then the flavor of magic filled my mouth like a fist.

  When they moved, I saw her, a witch in black and white, wild silver hair sparkling like the Pacific at noon, a cane she didn’t need in one well-manicured talon of a hand, sunglasses too big for her head, giving her the countenance of an aristocratic bug. Alicia Price walked toward us, and I steeled myself for a contest of wills no one had ever won.

  “Hello, James,” she said, voice as clear as spring water and hard as a concrete bunker. “I think you know why I’m here.”

  I did.

  But she was not going to leave this cemetery with the skull of Edgar Vance.

  CHAPTER 2

  ALICIA PRICE’S BUG STARE CUT MY ABILITY TO SPEAK, AND THE taste of her sour magic presence was like a mouthful of dusty prunes.

  “James,” Alicia said, “you look . . . the same as always.” She paused. “Terrible.”

  My smile firmed as I wet my lips, the grave crew muttering to each other in courtly Spanish. “Well, we independent men of action can’t spend our precious coin on finery like those born of vintage pedigree. Maybe if my family line traced back to Alexander of Macedon--or is that just a rumor?”

  She raised her chin and for a split second you could see the razor beauty she must have been between eighteen and fifty, the kind of pretty that cuts you to the quick and leaves you dripping. “They’re always true when they’re about me.”

  I nodded. “Glad you could make it to Edgar’s funeral.” I turned to Chip, who was back in the Father Creedy role, his expression confused but austere, as if the last page of his sermon had vanished. Goddamn modern actors can’t improv a thing to save their lives, or mine. “Father Creedy, your work is done. Best you run along home.”