Magic & Mistletoe: 15 Paranormal Stories for the Holidays Page 22

  Midway down a dark alley, near the middle of the block, a hot motorcycle cooled in the winter air. Its metal ticked and popped like music from drunken percussionists. A man with broad shoulders, standing six-foot-three, stood quietly by the machine. A fur-lined hood covered his head, and the steamy breath from his nostrils lingered at the hood’s edge before curling up and away, creating a chaotic halo.

  At the extreme end of the alley, under a flickering fluorescent light, three young men stood over a steam grate outside the back kitchen door of a soul-food restaurant. They heard the motorcycle tear into the alley and skid to a stop. They watched with disbelief as a large man dismounted and faced the street as the police drove by.

  “You seein’ this, Pea-Pea?” said De-Morris, the tallest and oldest of the three. He followed up with a drag from a menthol cigarette he kept pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Pea-Pea reached out for the smoke, and the tall one passed it to him without making eye contact.

  “Yeah,” Pea-Pea said. At sixteen, he was the youngest of the little crew. He let De-Morris call him by the affectionate version of his street name, “Peanut.” To everyone else he demanded to be called Pea-Dog or Nut.

  The last young man, nearly as tall as De-Morris, shifted on his feet and adjusted the cold, heavy metal object at the sagging waistband of his baggy jeans. He spat on the slimy alley concrete with a sneer that exposed crooked, ivory-white teeth. He was the first to move and did so without a word towards the man up the alley.

  The big man remained perfectly still, even as footsteps approached him from the shadows. When he finally did move, the three stopped for a moment. The man reached into the pocket of his baggy coat and rooted for something.

  The boy with the crooked teeth lifted his own baggy coat away from his waistband and wrapped his hand firmly around the black pistol grip. The man removed his hand and brought an object up to his hood. The hand went back into the pocket quickly this time, and the boys stopped again just ten feet away.

  The man turned slowly as he lit a long, white pipe with a large bowl at the top of a deep curve. As he puffed, the lighter dimmed and rose repeatedly. The flickering light revealed a pale, round, and craggy face sporting a bushy, salt-and-pepper beard of mostly salt. The wiry hair seemed to the boys at first to be part of the fur lining of a winter coat that should have been red, were it not covered in black and gray grime of many varieties and patched with swatches of material that did not match.

  “Hello, boys,” the man said with his pipe finally lit. He took a long drag and inhaled deeply. The man lowered his hands and the pipe clenched between his teeth gave his mouth a lopsided look that spoke to the boys of someone not altogether there.

  Emboldened by his firearm, the crooked-toothed boy stepped forward with a sinister smile.

  “What you doin’ in my alley, old man? You lost?”

  The man sighed with a billow of pipe smoke that engulfed the young men. “Shit,” he muttered. “Wayward youth. That’s why I picked this alley. Just can’t help myself…”

  Peanut sucked his teeth and De-Morris waved the smoke away.

  “Damn,” De-Morris exclaimed, “What you smokin’, cracker? Smells like a burnin’ truck tire!”

  The man’s eyes widened with surprise and seemed to glow as his shoulders rose. He took the pipe just before it fell from a mouth opening to the booming laughter that issued from him like bass from a booming sound system. He pronounced the laughter with a long “H” sound and a lingering “O.”

  Peanut made out three letters of a word tattooed on the back of the crazy man’s left hand. The letters were N, A and U.

  “Well, boys,” The man rumbled. “At least you can make me laugh.”

  “Boys?” the pistol holder said. “Who you callin’ ‘boy?’”

  “Son,” the man said, stepping forward while lowering his hood. “Everyone is a boy or girl to me.” The smiling eyes grew serious and the boys faltered for a moment. The pipe appeared in his mouth again. Hard eyes met hard eyes. The boy with the crooked teeth drew his pistol, stepped forward and pressed it into the crazy man’s chest.

  “I ain’t you son,” he shouted. “Give me all you got and I won’t cap you crazy ass right now!”

  “Shooting me might be hard,” the man growled, “with your safety on.”

  In the fractional second it took for the boy to drop eyes to the pistol, the weapon disappeared from his hand with the sound of ripping cloth and a muffled pop. The boy screamed and held his empty hand.

  “You broke my finger,” the boy shouted. He looked up at the man, balled up his other fist and took a swing for the jaw.

  As the boy swung his good left hand, the man simply reached out and gathered up two massive handfuls of winter coat. It was not lost on the boy how a solid punch to the face barely made the man’s head move. Unlaced boots dangled nearly ten inches from the filthy concrete of the alley floor. Feeling weightless, the boy was unsure of his next move.

  “Stop this, Rudy,” the man rumbled, giving Rudy a shake. “Calm down. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I..ain’t you damn son,” Rudy said. In the dim alley light, Rudy’s face grew ashen. “How…how you know my name…” he said.

  “I know all of you,” the man spoke softly.

  “He a cop,” Peanut muttered, somehow not convinced of his own statement.

  “Put…put him down,” De-Morris said, trying to sound tough, but failing. He had never seen a person move as fast as the biker in the alley.

  “Don’t be scared, boys,” the man said. He lowered Rudy to his feet again. Rudy balled up his only working fist once more, and the man tightened his left hand on Rudy’s coat, pulling him forward with a growl until Rudy could count the burst capillaries on the biker’s bulbous nose. Peanut finally saw the full word tattooed on the man’s hand. “Naughty,” the tattoo read.

  “Sir,” Peanut said in a meek voice, “Is you…”

  “Call me Kris,” the man replied.

  Keeping eye contact with Rudy, who held up his fist in mid punch, Kris brought up his calloused right hand, and placed it gently on Rudy’s cheek. Peanut could now see the tattoo that scrolled across the back of that other hand in old English script. “Nice,” the tattoo read. Rudy turned his face away from the other boys so they could not see the tears that came with a sudden thaw in his chest.

  “You don’t have to do wrong because wrong was done to you. You can be good, I know it,” Kris said. Rudy shook with fear, pain, rage and some other emotion he could not identify. “When I let you go, you need to be good, or life will get much worse for you when you leave this alley.” Rudy nodded his head with a jerky motion.

  Kris gave a smaller version of his laughter, but it still resonated in breastbones as it passed through the wide-eyed boys. Kris let Rudy go, turned back to his motorcycle. “Don’t get any ideas, boys. Just because my back is turned doesn’t mean I’m not watching you,” he said as he rummaged through the motorcycle saddlebags.

  Rudy noticed with dismay that Kris removed his pistol from a coat pocket and placed it in the saddle bag. Nobody noticed Kris putting the pistol in that pocket, but there it was. Rudy thought better of objecting. As he rummaged through the bag, Kris swore a lusty oath that made the boys snicker.

  “I’m allowed, damn it!” Kris growled, whirling to point a finger. “Just don’t you use such language…or else…” The boys grew serious. “Where is it?” Kris muttered, resuming his search. “Can’t find a damn thing in here anymore.”

  After removing a bottle of whiskey and a fist-sized leather pouch and setting them down beside the bike, Kris reached down deep past his elbows and withdrew a coarse cloth sack twice the size of the saddlebag. He set the bag on the ground, opened it, and produced warm sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper.

  “Ham and cheese,” he announced like a short order cook, tossing the bundle to Peanut. “Turkey and stuffing with cranberry sauce.” A sandwich flew at De-Morris. “And an over-stuffed po-boy.” Rudy fumbled for
his sandwich, but caught it in spite of his broken finger.

  The boys looked from the food in their hands, to Kris, then back again. Kris picked up the whiskey bottle and popped the cap from it with his thumb. Holding the pipe in his right hand, he lifted the bottle high with the left and took three great pulls, tilting his head far back.

  “Whew! That’s more like it,” Kris exclaimed with eyes glassy and wide. “De-Morris, you take Rudy here to the hospital. Ask for a doctor Tabitha Gaines. Tell her Kris sent you and she won’t ask you any questions. Eat those along the way. You’re all too damn skinny.”

  Peanut watched his friends go and shifted on his feet. “What about me?” he asked.

  Kris looked down at him and stroked his beard. “Hmm,” he said. “You stay here and take care of my motorcycle for me.”

  Peanut stared down at his feet.

  “You don’t like that job? I know you like motorcycles. I’ve seen you ride dirt bikes through the city, running from the cops.” Peanut looked up and cocked his head to the side. “You want to believe, don’t you,” Kris asked.

  “Maybe,” Peanut hedged.

  “Then maybe you will. Be good and you—”

  “You!” a voice shouted at the mouth of the alley. Peanut turned on his heel and ran. Kris noted that the boy took a split second to stuff the sandwich into his coat.

  The boy found a fire escape and scrambled up it with athletic grace and speed. He was up on the rooftops and racing across them before Jamal could reach the ladder.

  “He’s gone, Officer Abdullah,” Truckee shouted.

  Jamal turned back toward Kris, and Truckee gave him a scornful look and extended his hand, palm out. Jamal had raced past a suspect without care, barely sparing the man any attention at all. The young officer was normally much more careful.

  “Hello, Officer Abdullah,” Kris said, then gulped from the whiskey bottle again. “Hello, Officer Truckee. Would you like a nip of whiskey?” Kris extended the bottle toward the officer, who took a half-step back into a bent-kneed fighting position.

  “Put the bottle on the ground, slow!” Truckee ordered.

  Kris took another drink. Truckee put his hand on the grip of his pistol.

  “Put the bottle down!” Truckee shouted louder, mentally counting down the regulation number of commands before he was allowed to use force.

  Jamal was close enough to talk to Kris without Truckee hearing. “Just do what he says, Kris, and you can be on your way, unless you have weapons or drugs on you.”

  “You know me better than that,” Kris replied. It appeared he was unable to whisper. Truckee cocked his head and glared at his partner.

  Jamal hung his head and shook it. “Kris, don’t be stupid.” Jamal turned his face back up to his partner. He had a choice to make between his brother in uniform and the man he somehow considered a friend. He tried compromise. “Do me a favor, Kris. Just hold off on drinking for a few minutes while we sort all this out, OK?”

  Kris shrugged his shoulders and let the bottle hang at his side. He shifted on his feet and puffed on his pipe as Jamal carefully navigated around him to move back towards his partner.

  Truckee’s face was red and his lips pressed into a tight white line. “You know this guy?” Truckee hissed.

  It was Jamal’s turn to flush. “Yeah. Kind of a long story. He’s been showing up at the Cavern the same night for three years running. All the regulars love him. He buys everyone a few drinks, then leaves.”

  Truckee looked from the large, strange man and back to his partner several times. For once, Jamal found his face hard to read.

  “That why you pull the Christmas rotation with me every year?” Truckee asked in a strange tone. If Jamal didn’t know any better he’d say the tough old man sounded…hurt?

  “That, and the divorce,” Jamal said, allowing his voice to transmit some emotion. He was usually much more guarded with his personal life.

  “We take his liquor. If this guy doesn’t have any drugs or weapons, we cut him loose,” Truckee compromised. Jamal smiled.

  “Merry Christmas, Kris,” Truckee said, relaxing his stance. “Officer Jamal here decided to cut you a break.”

  “You don’t say,” Kris said with a belch.

  “Yeah,” Jamal said, stepping forward. He reached out carefully and took the bottle from Kris. “We have to take this from you. Open container laws and all that.”

  Kris sighed. “Just don’t dump it—” he started to say before Truckee snatched the bottle from his partner and poured it out.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” Kris growled. “That was fifty-year-old single malt. You could have had some.”

  Truckee threw the bottle into the nearest dumpster. “Turn around and face the wall,” Truckee said.

  Kris turned to Jamal and cocked his head in question. “Just do it, Kris,” Jamal said, “and this will go quick. We have to cuff you. It’s procedure.”

  “Don’t look at him,” Truckee barked. “Look at me.” Kris rounded on the officer slowly. Pipe smoke passed across his face like fast-moving storm clouds. “Face. The. Wall.” Truckee said.

  “The things I do for friends,” Kris grumbled as he complied.

  Jamal moved in quickly with the cuffs so that he could put them on loosely. “I could say the same thing, Kris.” Jamal replied. “You’re making things hard on me right now. This is my damn job.”

  “Fair enough,” Kris replied.

  Truckee was already shining a flashlight over the motorcycle. “Let’s see what’s in these saddlebags,” Truckee said, a bit too happily for Jamal’s taste. It sounded like he had a hunch.

  Truckee lifted the leather flap of the saddlebag and used a gloved forefinger to pull open the mouth carefully. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “Gun!”

  On reflex at the word every cop dreads, Jamal drew his service pistol and held it at the ready, angled in the biker’s general direction.

  “That shouldn’t be there,” Kris said to himself. “It should have disappeared.” It was Jamal’s turn to cock his head.

  “Oh, what have we here?” Truckee asked as he squatted down to open the leather pouch Kris had set down earlier. The officer withdrew a zip-lock bag full of white powder.

  “Oh, Kris,” Jamal said, anger and disappointment clouding his voice. His pistol rose a bit higher.

  “That is not what you think,” Kris said. He moved forward a pace and Jamal stepped in front of him and aimed his weapon mid-chest.

  “Sit down!” Jamal shouted.

  “But—” Kris said.

  “Sit!” Jamal screamed.

  Kris sighed and lowered himself down gracefully into a lotus position. Jamal shook off the strange sight and reminded himself the man was just another perpetrator now.

  “I thought you were different, somehow,” Jamal said.

  “That pistol shouldn’t be there,” Kris said, confusion softening his voice.

  “You’re damn right it shouldn’t,” Jamal said.

  “Serial numbers are filed off,” Truckee added. He activated the microphone clipped to his shoulder and called for backup. He reported the encounter to dispatch as a drug bust with a weapon present.

  “You don’t understand,” Kris said. “Something is wrong. The magic isn’t working right.”

  “Oh shit,” Truckee said. Jamal sagged visibly.

  “Why don’t you tell me about the magic,” Jamal asked in a softer tone.

  “Don’t tell me this guy thinks he’s…” Truckee asked.

  “What’s your last name, Kris?” Jamal asked.

  “Kringle, of course,” Kris replied. “I thought you already knew that. I thought everybody knew that.” His voice took on a far less confident tone.

  “Dispatch,” Truckee called, giving his unit number and location, “Notify central booking we have a potential psychiatric situation here.”

  “Just hang tight, Kris,” Jamal said, placing his pistol back in his holster. “We’re going to test this white powder. We can find out
what you’re on and maybe we can help you.”

  Kris said not a word, but looked up to the cloudless sky. A familiar face peeked out over the roof edge above. It was Peanut. Kris shook his head at the boy and jerked his head to the right in an obvious signal to run. Peanut brought his index finger to his lips and shook his head.

  “Jerking his head like that, could be meth,” Truckee said. “You have a test kit?”

  “Yeah,” Jamal replied, moving over to the motorcycle. He deployed the drug-testing kit using the red gas tank as a work table.

  “So,” Truckee said while Jamal worked. “You drink with this guy?”

  “Past tense,” Jamal replied, voice dripping sadness. “Thought he was cool. Turns out he’s just another crazy redneck. You were right about him.”

  “Yeah,” Truckee said. “Holidays have a way of making people put their guard down. Not me, though.”

  “Yeah,” Jamal said. “Not you.”

  Truckee folded his arms across his chest. “So, ah,” he said, “you should probably find someone else to drink with, then.”

  Jamal had just filled four small plastic cups with the white powder. He was just about to drop the testing solution into the cups, when he caught on to the awkward tone in Truckee’s voice. His partner was clearly angling for an invitation. It never occurred to Jamal that Philip might also be lonely during the holidays.

  “I would have invited you,” Jamal said, “but you never go out drinking with the guys. I just thought…”

  “They don’t ever invite me,” Truckee confessed. “On account of I’m an asshole, and all that.”

  “Hey,” Jamal said firmly, “If you were an asshole, I wouldn’t ride with you. You’re…unique, is all. Old school. They could learn a lot from you. I sure do.”

  “You spilled some of that powder,” Kris said. “Very bad. Please uncuff me before it’s too late.”

  “You must be seriously high if you think that’s gonna get you access to your drugs again.” Jamal said, pointing an angry finger.

  “It’s not drugs,” Kris said.

  “What is it, then,” Truckee asked, “washing powder?”