Left Hand Magic (11 page)

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Authors: Nancy A. Collins

BOOK: Left Hand Magic
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“Tate’s right,” Hexe agreed as he smeared the contents of the mortar on a makeshift eye patch constructed from a piece of double-folded cloth. “What happened last night was a long time coming. It was bound to occur, whether you ever set foot in Golgotham or not.” He gently placed the poultice over Bartho’s eye and wrapped a couple lengths of sterile gauze around the photographer’s head to hold it in place. “Keep that on for at least a half hour. It will reduce the swelling and get rid of the bruising. Now let me look at your wrist.”
Bartho obediently held out his left hand for inspection, grimacing as Hexe gingerly bent the wrist back and forth while wiggling each of his fingers. “I got lost in the damn smoke from the gas canisters and tripped over a curb,” he explained. “I automatically held out my hands to try and break my fall, but I’m afraid all I did was break my wrist.”
“It’s not broken,” Hexe assured him. “It’s just a bad sprain. You’re lucky—I can handle soft-tissue damage and certain types of wounds. Anything involving bones or major organs, though, I leave up to the boneknitters and psychic surgeons at Golgotham General.”
“Do you have a TV?” Bartho asked, looking about the room.
“Kinda,” I replied. “I’ve got one in my room, but I still haven’t unpacked it yet. . . .”
“I’ve got one in my office,” Hexe said, and promptly disappeared from the kitchen. I frowned in confusion, as I had never seen anything resembling a television in there before. A few seconds later he returned carrying a two-tone green plastic case with a gold anodized handle and matching knobs on top, with ADMIRAL emblazoned on the faceplate.
“
That’s
a television?” Bartho laughed.
“It was in 1956,” Hexe grunted as he put the set down on the kitchen table. “My grandmother Lyra used it to see into the future. And watch her soaps. Normally, the only channel that comes in clear is WICK, which isn’t surprising, since it broadcasts out of Golgotham.”
He plugged in the power cord and turned one of the knobs on top of the TV. There was a faint hum as the cathode-ray tube went from dark to light, and within a few seconds black-and-white images could be seen flickering across the ten-inch screen. The picture stabilized, revealing a two-person anchor team seated behind a news desk. The camera zoomed in on the female newsreader, who was pretty, young, and, except for the extra digits on her hands, no different than any other anchorwoman I’d ever seen reading a teleprompter.
“—a special WICK news report. I’m Eina—”
The camera switched to the older, dignified anchorman. “And I’m Reed—and if you’re just tuning in, today’s edition of
Good Morning Golgotham
has been canceled in order that we may air continuing coverage of the violence that has rocked our community.”
The anchorman’s face was replaced by shaky, handheld videocam footage of frightened and confused Golgothamites trying to escape the tear gas.
“A riot occurred in the heart of Golgotham last night. The Two-Headed Calf, a Golgotham landmark dating back to 1742, was ground zero for an angry confrontation between native Golgothamites and human tourists. The incident resulted in both the Paranormal Threat Unit and the New York Police Department being called to the scene—an event unprecedented in the history of Golgotham.
“While reports coming into the newsroom at this time are still sketchy, several eyewitnesses claim that the NYPD opened fire on innocent bystanders, forcing the PTU to retaliate. The chaos quickly spread throughout the surrounding area, resulting in looting as well as considerable property damage to local businesses and homes. The Two-Headed Calf was hit particularly hard. . . .”
Suddenly Lafo’s face filled the screen. He was standing outside his restaurant, and each and every one of its windows had been smashed. The Calf’s famous sign swung crookedly from a busted hinge and looked in danger of crashing down come the next strong breeze. The restaurateur looked both angry and weary as he pointed to the devastation behind him.
“First I’ve got this human kid who doesn’t know enough not to screw around with a leprechaun; then some idiot throws
another
idiot through the front window! The next thing I know, people are smashing up the furniture and stealing my liquor! It’s going to take a few weeks before I can reopen the place. . . .”
The image on the screen cut from Lafo shaking his head in disgust to footage of various Kymerans, leprechauns, and other nonhumans piling out of numerous cabs and rickshaws and hurrying into a large building identified as the Golgotham Business Owners Organization Headquarters. I recognized one of the figures as Giles Gruff, who arrived in the back of one of his own rickshaws.
“The GoBOO has called a special investigation into the events leading up to the riot, and whether or not sanctions will be levied against the City of New York.”
A well-dressed Kymeran with a three-foot-long braided ponytail draped over his shoulder like a pet snake, identified by a superimposed graphic as Mayor Lash, spoke into a microphone held by a reporter.
“We intend to get to the bottom of this tragic event as soon as possible. Despite our trademarked slogan touting Golgotham as the Big Apple’s strangest neighborhood, last night was a sharp reminder that, in reality, we are a city-state with its own sovereign laws and governance, existing within the boundaries of Manhattan Island. One thing I can say right now is that unprovoked attacks made upon our citizenry by anyone—including the City of New York—will not be tolerated!”
Hexe frowned and turned the dial on the TV. The picture rolled and shimmied, only to right itself after he gave the case a sharp rap on the side. The news anchor for WNBC sat in front of a green-screen projection of the smoldering ruins of the ESU truck, accompanied by a graphic that read GOLGOTHAM RIOTS! in a dripping horror-movie font.
“. . . was officially founded in 1775, following the Treaty of Golgotham, which established a Kymeran homeland within the City of New York, as well as a series of protected preserves for shape-shifters and half-beasts throughout the continental United States, in exchange for Lord Beke’s support during the Revolutionary War.”
A graphic flashed onto the screen showing Thomas Jefferson and George Washington shaking hands with a Kymeran wearing a tricorn hat and a Freemason’s apron. I recognized it as a copy of the engraving I’d seen hanging on the wall of the Two-Headed Calf.
“News 4 has just received information that Jared Wagner, the NYU student whose transmogrification and abduction appear to have triggered the street brawl that led to last night’s unrest, has been located live, unharmed, and in human form. We take you now to our live reporter, Mitzi Bloomberg, on the scene in Golgotham. . . .”
The picture switched to show a young woman holding a microphone and standing across the street from what I recognized as Blarney’s, the central watering hole for Golgotham’s leprechaun community, located on Ferry Street. A hansom cab was standing at the curb, and several PTU officers were busy keeping a crowd of reporters and other onlookers at bay.
“Thank you, Chuck. I’m standing in front of Blarney’s Pub, where we have been told Jared Wagner will be handed over to the Paranormal Threat Unit, Golgotham’s law enforcement division, who will be escorting the NYU sophomore first to the nearby Tombs, where he will be turned over to NYPD officials and then returned to his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Carlton Wagner of Long Island. Sources tell me that Jared’s return was negotiated by the head of the Wee Folk Anti-Defamation League, who will also be defending his fellow leprechaun, Neyland Tullamore, on charges of kidnapping and felony enchantment. Wait a minute! I think I see him!”
The reporter gestured toward the door of the pub, and the camera dutifully zoomed in to show Jared, barefoot and wrapped in a blanket, being escorted out of Blarney’s by Lieutenant Vivi. The college student looked pale and extremely shaken, as well as unprepared to see a wall of reporters shouting at him at the top of their lungs. One particularly enterprising newshound managed to get close enough to shove a microphone in the boy’s face.
“Jared! Oscar Hernandez for WNYX-TV! Can you tell us what your ordeal was like?”
“It was a nightmare,” the young man replied, his voice wavering. “I kept trying to scream, but all I could do was squeal like a pig—”
Before Jared could say anything else, Lieutenant Vivi hustled him into the waiting cab. As the reporters surged forward, eager to get their pound of flesh one sound bite at a time, the PTU officer raised her right hand, palm outward, in a warding gesture. The journalists abruptly fell back; it was difficult to tell whether they were repulsed by a spell or simply cowed by the threat of magic.
“There is a time and a place for asking this boy questions,” Lieutenant Vivi announced sternly. “It is not here and now. The Wagner family will be holding a press conference later today, after their son has been checked out by doctors.”
“Lieutenant Vivi! Lauren DeAngelo from Eyewitness News. What do you have to say to the accusations that it was your overreaction to the NYPD police presence in Golgotham that triggered the riot?”
The PTU officer glared at the reporter and climbed in alongside Jared, but said nothing as the cab pulled away from the curb.
Hexe changed the channel yet again, landing on a live broadcast from the steps of the Tombs. I immediately recognized Tullamore, looking considerably more subdued and a tad hungover, standing next to a robustly built, clean-shaven leprechaun dressed in a scaled-down three-piece Armani suit.
“Who’s that?” I asked
“Seamus O’Fae,” Hexe replied. “He’s the top dog at the WFADL, and an important member of the Business Owners Organization. He’s also a criminal lawyer. The wonks in City Hall call him Little Big Man behind his back.”
As the reporters drew closer, O’Fae stepped forward to greet the cameras with the practiced air of a courtroom attorney. Since both he and Tullamore were the size of toddlers, the reporters were forced to drop to their knees in order to conduct their interviews. Despite Seamus O’Fae’s diminutive size, his voice was surprisingly deep. Little Big Man indeed.
“As chairman of the Wee Folk Anti-Defamation League, I have arranged with Captain Horn for Mr. Tullamore to surrender himself, in good faith, to the Paranormal Threat Unit.” He turned and gestured to the tall, solemn-looking Kymeran dressed in a police captain’s uniform and standing off to one side. “I have also facilitated the return of Mr. Wagner—in his original state—to his family. Furthermore, I wish to take this moment to state that the WFADL is one hundred percent behind Mr. Tullamore’s fight for justice—”
As Hexe flipped the dial again, an all-too-familiar voice suddenly came from the speakers: “Last night proves that numps have no place in Golgotham beyond those areas set aside for them—Golgotham is our home, not their playpen! Let them get drunk and make braying jackasses of themselves on Duivel Street, if that’s what they want to do. But make sure that’s as far into Golgotham as they can go!”
Hexe groaned and rolled his eyes in disgust at the sight of his uncle standing on the street outside the GoBOO Headquarters. Esau had an armload of pamphlets, and was busily handing them out to passersby while he conducted his interview with the television reporter. Behind him were people carrying signs that read GOLGOTHAM IS OURS and SAY YES TO NO-HUMAN ZONES.
“The GoBOO is so intent on lining their pockets with money from tourism, they have endangered our security and cultural identity,” Esau went on. “For centuries we’ve been encouraged to play down the fact that Golgotham is actually a sovereign territory, to the point that most numps think we’re simply another part of New York City, like Coney Island or Chinatown. My great-grandfather didn’t negotiate the creation of a Kymeran homeland just so a bunch of rowdy looky-loos could be amused by the ‘local color.’ That is why I have started the Kymeran Unification Party; to bring pressure on the GoBOO to see to it that Golgotham’s borders—both physical and cultural—are reinforced, recognized, and respected, by whatever means necessary.”
“You’re not advocating violence against New York City, are you?” the reporter asked.
“Of course not,” Esau replied. “But should Golgotham become the target of human attacks, my people will not stand idly by. After all, no one wants to see a replay of the Sufferance.”
“Race-baiting asshole,” Hexe growled as he turned off the TV. “I knew we hadn’t seen the last of him.”
“Do you think anyone will take him seriously?” I frowned at the thought.
“Esau’s separatist spraint is impractical as far as the average Golgothamite is concerned, but I’m afraid his message resonates with a certain demographic within the community,” Hexe conceded. “I can see him starting some real trouble.”
As Hexe saw Bartho to the front door, my cell phone began to ring. I glanced at the caller ID, but all the readout said was: QPQ. I frowned and hit the TALK button. As I lifted it to my ear, a vaguely familiar voice on the other end asked, “Is this Tate?”
“Yes,” I replied cautiously. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Quid, of Quid’s Pro Quo.”
“Hey, how’s it going?” I smiled, my memory properly jogged. Quid was the favor broker who had procured a couple of Dodge transmissions for me, which I turned into sculpture for my ill-fated art show.
Quid ignored my attempt at small talk and went right to business. “You remember our deal, right?”

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