Scenes from the Secret History (The Secret History of the World) (39 page)

Face Off
is an anthology of series characters, um, facing off.  Jack was paired with Heather Graham’s Michael Quinn and it worked out well because each is experienced in otherworldly problems.

The story is connected to the Secret History because it involves one of the Seven Infernals listed in the
Compendium of Srem
(the book, not the story).  

For a reason I can’t fully explain, I added Madame de Medici, a character who appeared more than a century ago in three Sax Rohmer stories.  I find her fascinating, mostly because of what Rohmer does
not
tell us about her.  I mean, she may not be completely human.  She makes a double cameo here, but I would love to play with her at length someday.

Here’s how the story starts…

INFERNAL NIGHT

(with Heather Graham)

(sample)

Jack wandered the room as they spoke.

Okay, so Jules, the last surviving member of the Chastain family, was rich.  If the private Gulfsteam V that had flown him down here from LaGuardia and the Maybach with the liveried driver that had picked him up at the airport weren't enough, the sprawling New Orleans mansion provided sufficient backup.

Moss-draped oaks had swayed in the breeze to either side of the house as the driver let him out in front.  “The Garden District,” he’d said.  Jack had no idea what that meant, but the neighborhood spoke of genteel wealth, of a time forgotten, of slow grace and a distant era. For all Jack knew, the manor house itself might have been a plantation once. With those massive pillars lining the front porch, it reminded him of
Tara from
Gone with the Wind
. 

He’d had done a little research before agreeing to come south.  Jules Chastain had acquired his wealth the old-fashioned way: He’d inherited it.

And the guy knew people.  Famous people.  Newspaper clippings and original photos of Chastain with George W., with Obama, with Streisand, with Little Richard – now
that
was cool – lined the walls between ancient artifacts from all over the world.  Jack had lots of artifacts around his apartment too, but mostly from the 1930s and 40s.  These were like from pre-pyramid days.

I could be impressed, he thought.

He'd probably be definitely impressed if this guy was talking sense.

He stopped his wandering to face Chastain where he sat in some kind of throne-of-swords chair – only this wasn't a movie prop.  With his thin mustache, thick glasses, and ridiculous silk smoking jacket, he looked like Percy Dovetonsils on crack instead of martinis.

"Let me get this straight: You flew me all the way down here from New York to steal something
you
own from
your
family crypt."

"Yes," he said in a quavery voice.  "Exactly."

"Okay.  Now, since you're not crippled in any way I can see, go over again why you can't do this yourself."

"As I explained, the artifact I seek was obtained from another collector who wants it back."

"Because you stole it."

"Mister – I never got your last name."

Jack had had dozens over the years.

"Just Jack'll do."

"Very well, Jack, I assure you I can pay for anything I desire. 
Anything
."

"Not if the other guy doesn't want to sell."

He glanced away.  "Well, occasionally one runs into bullheaded stubbornness–"

"Which obliges one to steal."

He waved a dismissive hand.  "Oh, very well.  Yes.  I… appropriated it without the owner's knowledge." 

"And the owner wants it back."

"Yes, she discovered the… appropriation."

He seemed incapable of saying "theft."

"Oh, a she.  You never mentioned that."

“Madame de Medici.  You’ve heard of her?”

“I hadn’t heard of you until you called me, so why should I have heard of her?”

“Just wondering.  You’re familiar with the expression ‘Hell hath no fury’?”

“It’s ‘Heav'n has no Rage like Love to Hatred turn'd, Nor Hell a Fury like a Woman scorn'd.’”

Chastain’s eyebrows rose.  “Oh, a poetry fan.”

“Not necessarily.  Just like to get things right.  I had the misfortune of being an English major once.”

“Really?  What school?”

“The name doesn’t matter once you’ve dropped out.”

Chastain gave a little smile.  “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

“You were saying?”

“Well, if the true quote is ‘Nor Hell a Fury like a Woman scorn'd,’ then in this case we’ve got ‘Nor Hell a Fury like a de Medici missing a piece from her collection.’  When I told her I didn’t have her absent artifact, she went out and hired a hit man to kill me on sight.” 

Jack had to laugh.  “What is she?  A mob wife?”

“Despite the name, she appears to be a Middle Easterner.  The point is, she wants me dead.”

Over the years, during the course of business, Jack had ended more than a few lives, but never on contract.

“Well, I hope you don’t think I’m going to hit her, because that’s not in my job description.”

“No-no!  As I said, I just need someone to retrieve the artifact from the family mausoleum.”

“And you need a guy from
New York for this?  Why not somebody local?”

“I was told you are
– what did he call you? – an urban mercenary.  Yes, an urban mercenary with a reputation for getting the job done and being a man of his word.”

“Where’d you hear all this?”

“I’m not sure the individual would like me talking about him.  Let’s just say you’ve had the benefit of an enthusiastic referral and leave it at that.”

Jack wondered who it might be.  He didn’t know anyone in
New Orleans.  He shrugged it off.  With the Internet, the source could be anywhere.

“Still, there must be a local guy who can
–” 

“You also have a reputation for not being afraid of violence.  That is, if attacked, you will counterattack rather than run.”

“Oh, don’t go there.  I’ve done my share of running.  What else have you heard about me?”

Chastain frowned.  “Very little.  I made numerous queries.  You don’t seem to have an official existence.  Some sources even said you don’t exist at all.  That Repairman Jack is just some urban legend.”  His eyebrows lifted.  “Interesting name, that.”

Jack had never liked the tag but things had progressed far past the point where he could do anything about it. 

“Not my idea.  Someone laid it on me and it stuck.”

As for the urban legend angle, that was fine with Jack.  His favorite method was to play someone and leave them with no clue they’d been played.  Those people never talked about Repairman Jack, just a terrible run of bad luck.  But fixes didn’t always go as planned, of course, and sometimes things got dicey.  Sometimes people got violent.  Sometimes people died.  Those people never talked about Repairman Jack either.

Chastain rose and stepped to a window that had to be a dozen feet high.

“Well, whatever,” he said as he stared out at the night.  “The thing is, with a hit man after me, I need someone who can overcome any resistance, retrieve the artifact in question, and bring it back.  Too many locals would forget about that last part.”

“With a hit man after me, I wouldn’t be standing at a window.”

Chastain stiffened, then ducked to the side.

“I am so stupid at times,” he said, drawing the curtains across the panes.  “I’m not geared for this kind of situation.  That’s why I need you.” 

Jack still wasn’t buying. 

“But the simple solution is to call this Medici lady and say it’s in the mausoleum and tell her to go get it.”

Chastain’s hands flew into the air.  “I would if I could!  I’ve tried but she’s gone off the radar!  Incommunicado!  And I fear the longer I wait, the shorter I’ll live.  If I can just get the artifact back in my hands, I can eventually negotiate a settlement.  But I’m afraid to set foot outside the door.”

Something not right here.  Customers had tried to run games on him before.  Was this another?

“How do I know you’re not setting me up to steal this from her?”

He laughed.  “It is in the Chastain Mausoleum on the old Chastain plantation!  It’s got my family name on it!  I’ll show you a back way in
–”

“Why do I need a back way in if it’s yours?”

“Take the front way if you wish.  It’s just that I fear Madame de Medici’s hit man might suspect I’ll show up there and be lying in wait.”

Jack pulled his Glock from the small of his back
– traveling armed was a sweet perk of a private jet – and aimed it at Chastain’s face.  “No need to lie in wait when you had him driven in from the airport.”

Chastain’s eyes were fixed on the pistol as he backed away.  “What?  No!” 

“Madame de Medici offered me twice your fee.”  Jack shrugged.  “You got played.”

“This is impossible!”

“Quite possible.”  Jack returned the pistol to its nylon holster.  “But not true… this time.”

Chastain sagged against the desk.  “Why would you
do
such a thing?”

“Had my reasons.”

He’d wanted to see Chastain’s reaction, and it hadn’t been what he’d expected.

“That was cruel!” he said, dropping back into his desk chair.

“Naw.  Just serving up a dose of reality.  So, just what is this artifact?”  Jack pointed to some huge Olmec stone head in a corner.  “Not something like that, is it?”

Hysteria
tinged Chastain’s twittering laugh.  “Oh, goodness no!  It’s a ring – an ancient ring.  I’ve drawn a diagram of the interior of the mausoleum so you can find the hiding place.”

Jack didn’t like this, any of it.  But Chastain had called while Gia and Vicky were back in
Iowa visiting her folks and he felt the need for a brief change of scenery.  A fat fee, round-trip transportation to New Orleans in a private jet… it had all sounded too good to be true.

And naturally that was how it was turning out.

Hit man…sheesh.  He hadn’t bargained for that.  But if he could sneak in and sneak back out of this mausoleum with no one being the wiser, everything would be cool.  He’d stop by the French Quarter for a fried-oyster po’ boy and then be on his way.

“All right, let’s get this over with.  Money up front
– all of it.”

“Certainly.”  Chastain reached for an envelope on a nearby table in the shape of an elephant.  “Cash in hundreds, as agreed.”  Another one of those Percy Dovetonsils smiles.  “I take it Uncle Sam won’t be seeing any of that.”

Jack said nothing as he pocketed the envelope.  He wouldn’t know a 1040 if it poked him in the eye.

Chastain said, “I was concerned you might not be armed, but no longer.  I’ll have my man drive you over to the plantation and
–”

“You’ll show me how to get there, then have your man drive me to where I can hail a cab.”

Arrive in a silver Maybach Landaulet.  Right, that would work.  No, he take the most beat-up cab he could find.

“Very well.  But be prepared for deadly force.”

“Uh-huh.  Got a map?”

After watching Chastain trace a path along the
Mississippi to the location of his old family plantation on River Road, Jack let himself out onto the front porch to wait for the car.  He stood between two of the massive columns, staring out at the misty night and listening to his forebrain playing the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” while his hindbrain blasted “Go Now.”

Something definitely rotten in
New Orleans.  A guy with a contract out on him didn’t stand at a window.  He’d have all the curtains drawn and all the doors barricaded.  So Jack had pulled his pistol to see how he’d react.  In the context having your name on a contract,
“This is impossible!”
was not a response that made any sense when looking down the muzzle of a gun.