Book of Secrets (8 page)

It was early evening when I made it back to Tan's place. He was leaning back in his wheelchair, smoking one of those rancid Mexican cigarettes of his and smiling like he'd just won the lottery.

  "Well, old man," I asked, dropping in the chair across the table from him, "what'd you find?"

  "Oh, I found your boy, alright," he gloated. "I had him before you even left. I just wanted to be able to study his moves without you here hovering over me."

  "Alright, then." I paused, looking at him smile. "A name?"

  "I've got his name, alright. He's a fair thief, but a miserable human being. Bad teeth, stringy hair, horrible table manners. This guy's an ape in a people suit, son. Gambling problem, too, as I understand."

  "His name?" I repeated.

  "The problem with guys like him is that you never know which way they're gonna jump. They've got the skills, but they've got no moral center. You know how I've always told you, if you're going to live outside the law you have just got to be honest. Otherwise you're just an animal."

  "It was Dylan, old man. Bob Dylan said that."

  "He did? He must have heard it from me. I broke into his hotel room once after I heard 'Subterranean Homesick Blues'. Nice guy. That kid was Woody Guthrie all over again. Knew how to treat a guest."

  "Focus," I scolded. "The thief?"

  "Calm down. It's Marconi; that's the bird you're looking for. Gian Marconi."

  I sighed, and made note of the name.

  "Anything else you can tell me?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure I like your tone, boy."

  "Alright, alright. 'Thank you, Tan.' Now, can you tell me anything else?"

  The old man straightened up in his chair, smug, and smiled slightly.

  "Sure can. First off, this job cost money. Real money. The gizmos and doodads Marconi used to knock out all them motion detectors and whatnot cost a pretty penny, and he was never the kind to have that kind of scratch laying around."

  "So somebody put him up to it?"

  "Yep, that's what I figure. And but for one thing, it would have been pretty slick job."

  "One thing? What?"

  "Well, your detective here mentions broken glass on the floor, and something about some torn paper…" Tan gestured meaningfully to the plastic bag containing the ancient paper, lying half hidden by a stack of photos.

  "Go on," I prompted.

  "Well, for all his finesse gettin' into the joint, it looks like Marconi wasn't real sure what to do once he got there. Near as I can tell, whatever he wanted was in a glass case in the library, and instead of cutting his way in it appears like he just busted it."

  "So maybe he didn't know just what he was after?"

  "I didn't say that," the old man corrected. "Maybe he knew, and just got all rushed right there at the end. Somebody coming, or one of his gizmos was on the blink or something. Either way, breaking the glass like that seems to have messed up whatever was inside, and that's where the paper on the floor come from. It had a few slivers of glass embedded in the edge of it."

  Something struck me.

  "So it was definitely a book, then," I said.

  "That's what it looks like." He paused, then pulled the plastic bag out from under the photos. "Not that I can tell you what the book is though." He turned the bag over in his hands, inspecting the paper within. "Looks to be handwriting, but I couldn't tell you what language. Indian, maybe?"

  "Feather or dot?"

  "Hell, either one for all I know," he answered.

  I climbed out of my chair and started towards the phone.

  "Who you calling?" the old man asked.

  "Amador. He's stationed in Houston these days."

  "That scab? Shit," he spat. "Take a kid into your home, try to teach him what you know, and he ends up a fuckin' fed." Tan shook his head, and I could tell he was wondering where he'd gone wrong with that one. Where he'd gone wrong with
all
of us. He'd seen himself as a Cajun Fagin in those days, training a bunch of thieves and then sitting back while we brought him the goods. Instead, he ended up with a reporter, a computer geek, a special effects engineer, and various and sundry other young go-getters. We didn't always stay on the sunny side of the law, to be sure, but I knew that the old man was a bit disappointed.

  I shrugged, gave him a "what-can-you-do" look, and then started dialing. I called collect. I figured someone on a government salary could afford it.

  "Collect call from your mother," I heard the operator say. "Do you accept the charges?"

  "I guess," I heard my friend answer, and then the operator clicked off the line.

  "What's up, Lover?" I yelled into the receiver.

  "Finch? I should have known. How the hell are you?"

  "Not too bad, not too bad. I'm in Louisiana, visiting the old man."

  "Tan! No way! How is the old fucker?"

  "Same as always," I answered. "Only meaner."

  "He's still pissed at me, isn't he?"

  "Nah, nah," I lied, glancing over to see Tan giving him the bird
in absentia
. "He's over all that shit."

  "Sure he is," Amador said. "So, what's up?"

  "I need to you to track somebody down for me, find out what he's been up to."

  "Sure," he sighed. "Not a single Christmas card in years, and you call when you need help. What's the story?"

  Amador Ysquierdo, the Crooked Lover. My pal. We'd met years ago, in Louisiana, both runaways. We'd got into some rough spots together and managed to muddle through alright. A couple of kids out looking for trouble; it was amazing what we had found. Still, time has a way of cooling those angry fires, if they don't burn you up first. Even as close to the edge as we'd gotten, it was still possible to come back. Amador was a case in point.

  After a childhood spent monkeying around with computers and phones, causing several business and more than one government agency their fair share of grief, Amador had decided to use his powers for good. Or for his own good, at least. Had himself legally emancipated from his family back in the Rio Grande Valley, finished up school out in Louisiana, and then had gone on to get a degree in computer engineering. Now, years and miles later, he was working for the FBI doing data retrieval. I doubted his employer knew that, under his old alias, Amador was still on the active warrant lists of the Bureau, the Treasury Department, and several more clandestine national security agencies.

  I gave him Marconi's name and asked if he could hunt down his last known whereabouts, possible charges, last address, things like that. Amador said he'd find out what he could, which knowing him meant everything.

  "One other thing," I added. "What can you tell me about an outfit called Lucetech?"

  "Are you kidding me?" he asked. "Have you even seen a computer before?"

  "Humor me."

  "Well, outside of Microsoft, Adobe and Apple they're only one of the biggest software companies on the market. They handle mostly telecommunications, network architecture for large corporations, banks and such like… lately they've been making the move into consumer apps." He paused, then added, "Why do you ask?"

  "You hear of them getting involved in any kind of real estate or manufacturing gigs?"

  "Huh?" Amador breathed. "Not unless you count all the tech support and R&D facilities that're opening up all over the damned place. Nah, nothing I've heard of. Why?"

  "Just curious."

  "Well, where can I reach you?" he asked. "You gonna be sticking around with grumpy for a while?"

  "Not this trip. I've got some more digging to do back in Texas, a couple of social calls to make, so I guess I'll just have to get in touch with you."

  "Solid," Amador said. "Give me a day or two, and I'll see what I can do."

  "Thanks, brother. I owe you."

  "Shit, yeah, you do. Don't worry, I'm keeping score."

  I heard the line go dead, and then dropped the phone back on its cradle. I turned to see Tan still at the table, shaking his head sadly.

  "A fucking fed."

Tan agreed to let me stay at his place for the night, so I dragged some bedding out of the closet and dropped it down onto the floor. The box of my grandfather's things was still sitting near the table, so I picked up the book I'd bought and walked over to add it to the pile. When I opened the box, something caught my eye. I pulled out one of the magazines and examined the cover. The title, emblazoned on the cover in inch-high letters, was
True Western Tales
, the same I'd seen mentioned in connection with the other magazine. I flipped the front cover open and saw a listing for a La Mano Negra adventure there in the index. Curious, I tossed it over onto the bedding, and then closed up the box.

  Tan came walking into the room, as only he can. Suspended from the ceiling in midair, he moved hand over hand, gripping onto the rungs of a ladder bolted horizontally onto the ceiling.

  "You get your nest all straightened out, little chick?" he taunted, barely out of breath.

  "Yeah," I answered. "Thanks for letting me crash here."

  "Hell," he grunted, moving over towards the table where his wheelchair sat, "don't give me that shit. You can stay here anytime you like, and you know that."

  "Okay, but thanks anyway."

  Tan maneuvered himself right above the wheelchair, and without a second glance let go his grip on the ceiling rungs and dropped like a shot into the chair. He landed artfully, a ten point Olympic landing, and casually lit up a cigarette.

  "You know," he continued, blowing out a cloud of rancid gray smoke, "I could probably find out about this bird of yours a lot quicker than Humidor can."

  I let the dig slide, and crossed to the table where my own cigarettes were.

  "Yeah?" I asked.

  "Sure, I still got connections, you know. Just 'cause I'm retired doesn't mean I forgot everything I ever knew, or everybody, and I knew a lot of bodies when I was inside."

  "Alright, then," I answered. "You want to ask around, great, I appreciate it. But don't be giving me shit for it later, like I can't do my job." I jabbed a finger at him in mock accusation. "You're not doing my job for me, you lecherous old fart, you're doing me a favor."

  "Fine, fine." He waved me off. "Just stop crying about it. Come on, fix me a drink."

The old man finally gave up on the day, just before he was about to drink me under the table, and wheeled off to his bedroom. I kicked off my boots, wondering just what kind of luck I'd got from them after all, and settled onto the floor on my little nest of bedding. The western pulp magazine was at hand and, still too wired up to sleep, I dragged it over to me and flipped it open to the first page.

True Wester n Tales,
Sept 8th, 1918)

1

S
tring him up, Lefty," shouted the swarthy rider on the seventeen-hand painted stallion. "Don't let him get away."

  "I'll get him, Shorty," replied his companion, in the saddle of a high-shouldered bay. "Just keep your shirt on."

  The two men, ranch hands from the state of their clothes and the easy way they sat in the saddle, were galloping through the brush, across the hard, level ground of the Rio Grande Valley, in pursuit of a man on foot. Their prey, a stocky Mexican in simple white cotton, was on foot, out of breath, and just about out of luck.

  Lefty, standing high in his stirrups, let fly his lariat, and with practiced aim brought the loop down around the Mexican's shoulders. Kicking his mount to a halt, he pulled tight the rope, and brought the Mexican to the ground.

  "Good eye, Lefty," Shorty admitted.

  "What would you know about it, booze hound?" Lefty shot back. "If it weren't for you we'd've got him five miles back."

  "I told ya, I was aiming for his horse, not for him."

  "Yeah," Lefty spat, crossing his arms over the saddle horn, the rope clutched in his fist. "Well, next time you best oughta aim at me. You'd have a better chance of hitting him that way." 

  Shorty looked from Lefty to the Mexican, now laying dazed on the ground.

  "Whatta we oughta do with him, you think?" Shorty asked. "Shoot 'im now?"

  "Nah," Lefty answered. "I figure we oughta have a bit a fun with 'im, teach 'im what it means to rustle cattle from Mr. Pierce." Lefty paused, and spat out a greasy line of tobacco towards the Mexican. "Then we shoot 'im." 

  "Sounds good to me."

  With a practiced hand, Lefty tied the end of the lariat to his saddle horn, and then turned his mount away from the Mexican. The Mexican, knowing what was coming, struggled to his feet, hoping against hope to find a way out. Lefty kicked the bay into motion, and it slowly trotted forward, bringing the line taut. 

  Lefty turned to Shorty. 

  "You ready, saddle sore?" 

  "I reckon," Shorty answered.

  "Alright then," Lefty replied, grinning. He whistled, one long, high note, through his broken teeth, and then made to kick his horse into a gallop.

  Suddenly, a shot rang out, and the taut line between the Mexican and Lefty was burst in twain. 

  Shaken, Lefty and Shorty turned to the sound of the gun shot, and saw a hundred yards away a pair of riders. As they watched, the two riders approached. On the left rode a man on a magnificent Arabian, nineteen hands high if it was an inch, as black as night. The man was dressed all in black, with a mask wound round his face, obscuring his eyes and nose, a wide black Stetson perched on his head. In each fist he gripped a Colt Peacemaker of burnished black steel, each trained on one of the ranch hands. At his side rode a Chinaman, dressed all in red silk, with his thick black hair falling in a queue down his muscled back. The Chinaman rode a stunning bay, and had a Winchester rifle in hand, its barrel aimed at Lefty's heart.