"Discount Miracles From Wickett and Thicke"
"Discount Miracles From Wickett and Thicke"
3/20/2019
I.
Bane's coffee table was strewn with disordered newspapers. One of his peculiar traits was that he never listened to music or watched movies, but he had a passion for local newspapers. Every few days, he stopped at a store in Times Square and picked up an armful of local papers. Sometimes he concentrated on newspapers from New York State, but as often he bought a dozen papers from around the world, as long as they were in English.
Today, he was growing more restless and annoyed with every page that he pored over and tossed aside. Many of his most dangerous cases had begun with a brief suggestive item in an obscure paper from some backwoods, but at the moment there seemed to be nothing anywhere indicating Midnight War activity that might need his attention.
In his early sixties, the Dire Wolf remained lean and active. The black turtleneck showed no thickening around the middle, the short black hair was only speckled with grey strands. But the infamous pale eyes were getting angry as he neared the end of the stack. Maybe reporting wasn't what it once had been. He found fewer and fewer reports of bizarre creatures being spotted or bursts of unexplained disappearances. Bane slammed the last paper down and leaned back on his couch as his Link buzzed.
The screen showed a number he didn't recognize. More and more, he regretted closing his office and putting the Dire Wolf Agency on an appointments only basis. He wasn't ready for retirement. A lifetime of Midnight War had left him with a permanent appetite for stress and action and now he realized how eagerly he was hoping this might be a case. "Yeah, hello?"
"Mr Bane?" squeaked an elderly man's voice. "Jeremy Bane?"
"That's right. Who are you?"
"Oh thank God, I had the damndest time getting a number I could reach you at. This is Jacob Shultis. You may have heard of me, I own some real estate."
That's an understatement, Bane thought. Shultis was famous for his luxury spas across the Tri-State area. "Sure. What is it you want with me?"
"Something terrible has happened. It's fantastic, I don't know if anyone would believe me if they didn't see for themselves. Can we meet?"
"Okay," Bane said, visibly perking up at the words 'terrible' and 'fantastic.' "I would rather not do business at my home. Do you have an office?"
"Yes. Right now, I'm opposite Rockefeller Center. You can see that stupid statue from my window. Can you please come right away, I am more distressed than any of my divorces made me."
"I'm in Queens," Bane told him. "I can leave immediately. Give me the address. Okay. I'm on my way." The Dire Wolf jumped to his feet, almost hopping up and down at the prospect of some excitement. This is ridiculous, he thought, I'm giddy at the idea of risking my life when I don't have to.
Even retired, he wore the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes every day, just as he always had the matched silver daggers strapped under his sleeves. It only took a second to tug on the black sport jacket. Heading for the door, he unlocked the reinforced cabinet and took out his long-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 in its holster which he fastened to his belt behind the left hip. When he stepped outside, he heard the reassuring buzzes and clicks of the security alarms arming themselves.
The dark green Mustang was parked in the short gravel driveway next to his house. Bane never left it without a full tank and checking the tires and oil. He lived like a fighter pilot or firefighter always ready for the call. In a few seconds, he was pulling out into the side street and heading for Manhattan.
The Shultis Health Spa occupied the bottom half of a gleaming chrome spike of a building that rose forty stories high. Bane was admitted down a ramp into an underground parking garage where a trim young man in a stylish business suit met him.
"Mr Bane? Hello, my name is Stimmel. I'll be bringing you directly to Mr Shultis."
"Fine." Chirping his car doors locked with his key fob, Bane went with the man past a double pair of doors to a private elevator set in a concrete pillar. The door hissed open as they approached and the cage rose without Stimmel touching any buttons.
"There are a few things you might need to know," the aide said in the brief ride. "Mr Shultis does not care for physical contact, so please do not offer to shake hands. You might find the suite warmer than usual, but that's his preference. Of course, I will be present along with his attendant."
"Any idea what he wants with me?" Bane asked. They reached the fortieth floor as the door opened with a chime.
"Here we are," said Stimmel. He led the Dire Wolf into a high-ceilinged chamber forty feet to each side, with windows taking up an entire wall overlooking Park Avenue far below. The decor was old-fashioned elegance, real wooden walls and solid mahogany furniture. A golden carpet inches thick. Bookcases filled with matching reference works were broken up by statuary and an original Vasquez oil of a rearing stallion. Immediately to their right as they entered was a desk from behind which a gorgeous redhead in a tight yellow dress rose to flash an expensive smile at them.
But all of Bane's attention was focused on the figure in the motorized wheelchair. Bundled in a heavy wool robe with a blanket over his legs, at least in his early eighties and badly preserved at that, the man seemed to be a frail bundle of skin covering bones. The prominent nose nearly met a pointed chin. Not much hair remained on the round cranium.
"I'm so glad you came!" crackled the dry voice. "Please, please, have a seat on the couch there. If anyone can help me, I know you can."
Remembering not to approach closely, Bane remained beyond arm's length. He was puzzled enough not to sit down as suggested. "Jacob Shultis...?"
"Yes. Unhappily enough. You are no doubt remembering pictures of me in the papers. No wonder you seem confused. Mr Bane, I am fifty-seven years old."
II.
Lowering himself to the couch, the Dire Wolf said, "Tell me everything."
"Yes, yes. Alan, Fran, please go down to the lobby and enjoy a smoothie for a few minutes."
The redhead seemed dubious. "Sir, are you sure you won't need us?"
"Heh, quite sure. With this man here, I am safer now than I have been in months. Go now. Take your time." After his two assistants had exited in the elevator, Shultis made his chair spin around to face his visitor straight on. "So, Mr Bane. I have heard wild stories and rumors about you for many years. And being curious by nature, I have even had some investigators do a little research. It seems that the tall tales of the Dire Wolf are if anything understatements."
Blunt by nature, Bane simply said, "What happened to you?"
"Heh. Very well. I have been seeing a delightful young woman from the Carmody family. We get along very well. But, to be honest, I'm pushing sixty and she was barely leaving twenty-one behind. All the cruises and water-skiing and concerts were wearing me out. I could see she would soon be growing tired of me growing tired too often."
"Got it so far."
"I have been following your clandestine Midnight War for years now. Astonishing how much goes on in the dead of night that the media ignore or never learn about. I heard about two men who were offering a new vitality serum not available to the general public. I met them and tried a sample. For a stiff price, I might add."
When Shultis paused, Bane simply said, "Go on."
"It worked within minutes. I felt invigorated. Full of energy, eagerness, snap crackle and pop so to speak. It was wonderful. For a week. Then my world collapsed. I woke up one morning weary and feeble, just as you see me now. My personal physician was horrified and still has absolutely no idea what to say."
"Hmm. Sounds like the miracle serum charged you up but also burned you out in the process. You're worse off than you were before."
"Absolutely." The ravaged face looked away as tears welled up in those bloodshot eyes. "What a horrible thing to do to someone! It's an abominable crime. I have not been able to locate the two fiends who took away twenty years of my life. I was ready to quietly take an overdose of medicine but then I thought of you..."
Bane nodded. "You want me to find these two for you."
"Yes! Yes. I don't fool myself into thinking they can reverse the process but at least I can see they are punished for what they did."
"All right. This sounds like Alchemy to me. I know a few masters of the Great Art who might be able to help. Describe these two men."
"Better than that, I can give you their names. I checked their IDs. Graham Thicke and Ian Wickett."
To Shultis' surprise, Bane buried his face in his hands and groaned. "THOSE two again! I wish they would fall off the Earth. The worst con artists since Doc Valentine. Every time they show up, people are robbed and swindled and betrayed. And now they're dabbling in Midnight War crimes."
"You know them then?"
"Too well!" Bane jumped to his feet. His hyperactive metabolism made it difficult for him to sit still more than a few minutes. "I always took it easy on them. They're grifters without a shred of conscience between them, but compared to the monsters I usually fight, they seemed harmless. Last time we met, I let them go. Not any more. I'll drag them in by their heels."
The withered old man grinned and clapped his hands together with a clacking sound. "That's the Dire Wolf I was hoping to meet. Name any fee you want, run up any expenses necessary. I'll place millions at your disposal."
"No. Write me a check for a flat one thousand. That establishes you as my client. It gives me certain legal advantages when dealing with the police."
"But... I can pay whatever you want, Mr Bane."
The Dire Wolf stared down at the shriveled figure in the wheelchair. "To tell you the truth, sir, I'd go after them even if you don't hire me. I'm angry now."
III.
For the first time in weeks, Bane left his Mustang in the space he leased at the IMPERIAL GARAGE and strode brusquely out onto 40th Street. Even after he had closed his office nearby, keeping this space available had seemed worth it to him. On a late Friday afternoon like today, he could make better speed around Midtown on foot. Holding his Link up by his ear, the Dire Wolf made call after call to his sources as he sprinted along the sidewalks.
A tense forty-five minutes of questioning Jacob Shultis had drawn out every possible detail about the meeting with Wickett and Thicke, from their clothing to the slightest phrase they had spoken. As he wove in and out of the crowds without once brushing up against anyone, part of Bane's trained mind was analyzing the conversation for any hints on where to find them.
At 42nd Street, he swung left. This area had changed dramatically since the most hectic days of the Midnight War. Gone were the rows of second-run movie theaters and strip clubs, used book stores and shady gambling joints. Everything was a bright colorful tourist trap now. This glossiness and glitter annoyed Bane, it meant his most useful hunting grounds had been lost.
Finally, on Eighth Avenue up near 50th Street, the Dire Wolf found one of his best sources. Sitting by a propped open door of an Italian restaurant called Hugry Bambino was an immensely fat middle-aged woman with long white hair done up in an elaborate pattern atop her head. In her long black dress, Mama Ferraro soaked up the warm late March sun with the delight of a cat. She saw the grim figure in black walking toward her and she laughed out loud.
"Mama Ferraro!" Bane said, shaking her offered hand. "No, don't trouble yourself getting up. I'm on a job, I won't be here long."
"Long time no see, Jeremy," she replied. "How have you been? How is that little blonde girlfriend of yours, the mind-reader?"
"She's fine. She has a teaching job." Bane stepped closer and waited until no one was close before continuing in a lower voice. "I know when I need information in a hurry, I should check with you first. You keep track of everything weird or eerie in this neighborhood."
"It's what I live for. I'm a gossip to the bone. Tell me, paisan, how can I help you?"
Bane described two men who seemed to be in their thirties. One was a slightly built fellow with a bland infoffensive face and light brown hair, and his companion was much bigger and more imposing. Both dressed extremely well to the point of foppishness. They spoke with a posh upper class British accent that sometimes seemed artificial.
Before he could name the suspects, he was taken aback by the bile with which Mama Ferraro spat, "I know them, Jeremy! May their lives be bitter and miserable to the end of their days. Do you know what they did to Papa?"
"No."
"All his life he dreamed of owning a nice car. He and I, we worked long hours for years to build up this restaurant, hiring the best chefs we could afford and encouraging regular customers. Papa finally bought a new Mercedes in January. He kept it as shiny and spotless as the new snow on Christmas morning. Then those hyenas Wickett and Thicke turned up."
Bane squatted easily down next to the massive woman in her black dress, keeping his own voice low. "Graham Thicke, Ian Wickett. Tell me what they did."
"Fast talkers, untrustworthy talkers! Oh, I disliked them from the start. But you know Papa. He has a big soft heart like a red sofa cushion. They sold him an additive they claimed would make his Mercedes run so smooth it couldn't be heard AND it would double its mileage."
"Did it work?"
"At first, yes. Papa was so happy. He drove up to Albany and back without needing to fill the tank. The needle hardly moved. The car flew along the highway like a hawk. For a week, it was the wonder of his friends. Then, he started it up early one morning and the engine block cracked in half with a noise that broke his heart to hear. Coolant and oil poured out onto the garage floor."
Bane shook his head. "I am so sorry to hear that. Mama, I can tell you that these crooks have ruined another man's life as well. They sold him a miracle serum that did irreparable harm. Do you know where I can find Wickett and Thicke?"
"As if we didn't try to confront them, my friend. We even took the big boy from our kitchen with us, Louie. You've seen him. But they were no longer staying at the hotel they had given us as an address." She searched his face and smiled wickedly. "I would love to see you track these men down, Jeremy. My poor Papa will never be the same after having to junk his car."
The Dire Wolf's expression grew even more stern than his usual scowl. "They're going to regret all they've done, Mama."
"Ah, you know who you might want to talk to? The man with the rooftop garden, Benny Jack the Farmer. Over by the river, you know?"
"He has been dealing with these two?"
"I think so, buddy," the woman admitted. "I am not sure. But last week he came in for his usual veal and wine, Benny Jack was excited. He said he was going to take a chance on a new fertilizer that was not on the market yet. He even used the word 'miracle.'"
Bane straightened up, eager to get back on the chase. "Maybe I can reach him in time. Here, for your vigilance." He placed two folded fifty dollar bills on her lap. "You have saved a few lives over the years by pointing me in the right direction, Mama Ferraro."
"Glad to help," she said. "I will never be able to repay you for when those Winter Snow hoodlums came in to break up our dining room because we would not pay protection. You folded ten dangerous men up like balloon animals. They never came back."
The Dire Wolf nodded politely, spun on his heel and took off a full run toward the west where the Hudson was only a few blocks away. Seeing him race off, Mama Ferraro laughed again. "Oh yes. Go get them, boy."
IV.
Except for two satellite dishes and a kiosk over the stairs leading down, the entire roof of the ancient red brick building was taken up by the Neighborhood Garden. It had started as one man's retirement hobby but over time all the tenants had chipped in. Bane had been here once before, in the Spring when bright green decorative plants filled rows of pots, and where vegetables and flowers blazed brilliant in rows of crates filled with dirt. People all over the West Side came here to see it and have their spirits lifted.
Gone now. Everything was dead. Brown, lifeless brittle leaves drooped wherever he looked. It looked worse than the dead of winter when at least a few plants hung on.
As the Dire Wolf stared glumly at the ruin, he heard a footstep behind him. Not a threat. It was tentative, almost timid step coming up the stairs from the fifth floor below them.
Bane turned to see the stricken face of Benny Jack watching him. A short black man with a sparse beard and mustache, he normally had a warm smile and an almost serene manner. That was gone now, too.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am to see this," the Dire Wolf said. "What could have done it?"
"It's mah fault," answered Benny Jack. "Bad judgement on my part, I haveta take the blame. These two sharpies talked me into trying a new fertilizer spray, they claimed the big companies wouldn't allow it to be sold in stores because it worked too good. You can see they were liars."
Bane shook his head and moved down the row of earth-laden boxes where now nothing lived. "It looks like they sold you poison, Benny."
"Yeah. Guess so. I tried it on a few plants and they perked up remarkably spry. So I sprayed everything. For a week, this roof was a rainbow of growing living things. In this drab dull awful neighborhood, it was like... I dunno, an oasis in a wasteland."
"Benny, I'm looking for the men who sold you that spray. They've been victimizing people all over the city. Did they give you an address?"
"They said they was gonna be at the Paradise Hotel, not far away. You know it?"
"Yes. If they're there, I intend to bring them in and press charges for everything from fraud to illegal distribution of dangerous chemicals. If I can manage not to beat the hell out of them. Good luck, Benny."
As Bane hurried toward the covered stairs, he paused when Benny Jack spoke up again.
"This isn't the end," the man declared. "Goddam, every time I get knocked down, I get up again. The people in this building are already bringing up fresh earth and seeds and saplings. We'll build the Garden a second time."
Bane raised a hand in salute. "That's the spirit I like to see. I wouldn't expect less from a farmer." He rushed down the stairs, descended five flights and ran out of the dingy foyer like a real wolf trying to catch a rabbit.
At a brisk walk, Jeremy Bane covered distance more quickly than most people could run. Passersby stepped aside as they saw him hurtling toward, more than a few stared. Bane didn't care. He was surprised at how angry he was becoming. Considering how many tortured bodies and bloody carnage he had seen in a long career, for some reason he was increasingly furious over what Wickett and Thicke were doing.
He took a moment to stand in front of a used furniture store and took some deep calming breaths. One of Teacher Chael's first lessons had been to show how anger led to mistakes and mistakes led to defeat. Bane stared at the kitchen tables in the store window without seeing them and after a few minutes he felt more in control of himself.
At 17th Street, he swung left and jogged toward the Lower East Side. Even this part of the Bowery, once known as Skid Row, had been cleaned up considerably since its hellhole days. The Paradise Hotel still stood as sordid and disreputable as ever on a corner with a vacant lot strewn with debris next to it. Aside from the normal drug deals and prostitution and gang activities that might be expected, quite a few Midnight War battles had been secretly fought in those mildwed halls and tatty rooms. In fact, this had been a twenty-year-old Bane's first encounter decades ago with the shadowy world few people suspected. That Nekrosan sorcerer with the Growler, what had been his name? Yorick. After the Hamlet reference.
Bane crossed over and began slowly circling the block, coming completely around and standing in front of the entrance before repeating his route. At the rear of the hotel was a paved courtyard holding a rusted out pick-up truck and a pair of bicycles chained to a streetlamp. He came around again, and as he passed the Paradise, he spotted a curtain on a third floor window move. Hopefully, the old ruse was working.
Going past the courtyard, he slipped into a deep doorway of a pharmacy that had been closed and boarded up for years. How many desperate people had gone straight from that drugstore to get their fix in the hotel rooms nearby? How many had come out to buy or sell their pain pills? Bane saw the rear exit of the Paradise slam open and two exceedingly well-dressed men scrambled out. The bigger one was carrying a suitcase in each hand, the other only held a briefcase.
Before they could take three full steps, Bane had vaulted across the courtyard and smashed into the bigger man in a full flying tackle. They went down in a brief tangle, then the Dire Wolf sprang up again in time to trip the other man and send him to the asphalt as well.
"Hold it!" he snapped. "You boys have got a story to tell!"
"This is a rum go," answered the smaller man. He was up on his hands and knees, more offended than hurt. He even took a second to tug down his jacket and pull his jacket sleeves into place where they had ridden up.
Bane disregarded him for a second, Thicke was not the physical threat. Facing him was a wide-shouldered man several inches over six feet tall, with unusually large hands. The bowler hat had somehow remained planted on the impeccably cut brown hair. Letting go of the suitcases, Ian Wickett curled those big hands into fists and took a menacing step forward.
"Forget it," the Dire Wolf warned. "I know you're a Melgar. You're strong and hard to hurt, but it won't help you now."
Wickett rushed forward and was met with a high side kick to the chest that stopped him could. The breath was driven out of his lungs with a gush. Closing in, Bane drove a left cross, right cross and left backhand that rocked the Melgar's head from side to side so his brain slid back and forth within his skull. The blows were sharp and crisp. Wickett dropped to one knee, still trying to raise his hands. Bane knelt over him and crashed an elbow to the back of the neck that would have killed a normal Human receiving it.
Wheeling around, the Dire Wolf pointed accusingly at the other grifter. "Stay where you are. No sneaking off."
Graham Thicke had a pleasant enough face, though the chin was weak and both ears unfortunately stood out from the skull. "I must say it brings me no joy to encounter you again. Have you run out of werewolves and serial killers to chase?"
"You two are bad enough," Bane said. "You heartless conmen! It doesn't bother you at all how many people you've made miserable?"
"A shrewd aphorism advises us to never smarten up a chump or give a sucker an even break. See here, old man. We are actually performing a valuable service. One learns prudence from sad experience. The customers we, ah, fleece end up wiser from the experience. You can see that, can't you?"
"Yeah. And if I break your jaw in a couple places, it'll heal up stronger."
Thicke visibly went pale at the threat. "Oh, well, if you're going to be unreasonable..."
Seeing from his peripheral vision that Wickett was rising, Bane stepped to one side. "Get over by your accomplice so I can watch you both of you. No, never mind the luggage right now."
A bit shakily, the big Melgar obeyed. "Sorry about that, sir," he said to his partner."
"Quite all right, Wickett," Thicke assured him. "Mr Bane here is a bit more proficient than the average person. But I say, what IS your grievance with us? You seem to be taking our game rather personally."
Bane remained where he was, arms folded across his chest. In the afternoon sunlight, his grey eyes flashed alarmingly bright and cold. "You boys have gotten hold of some Alchemical solutions."
"Well... yes. We happened to be visiting a chap named Agadol when he gave up the ghost. Went to join the choir invisible, one might say. The dear old thing was at least two hundred and looked it, so evidently even his Alchemy could not keep body and soul together any longer."
"I know Agadol. As Alchemists go, he wasn't that skilled at the Great Art. Mostly he made up love potions and good luck powders that sometimes worked but more often were useless or even harmful. So after he died, you two looted his workroom?"
"What an ungenerous phrase," Thicke said. "Certainly the departed had no further use for his miraculous creations. On the other hand, our coffers have been decidely anemic lately. Don't you think Agadol would have approved of our helping ourselves, Wickett? To remember him by?"
"Quite."
"Enough. Let's get some uniformed officers here to drive you jokers downtown for some questioning. I'm not arresting you. I am authorized to detain you on behalf of my client until law enforcement gets here." He reached to unclip his Link from its place on his belt.
"One moment, sir." Although Wickett used the subdued tones of a valet, his size and sheer presence gave him authority. "If I may say so, the grounds for arresting us seem insufficient. Are there any traces of the serums we allegedly sold to these gullible souls? Were any papers signed? Or even any witnesses? I think not. If through some unlikely train of events we should be brought to court, what can you present to a judge?"
"Oh, jolly good, old thing," said Thicke. "Well put."
"I'll search your suitcases over there," Bane growled. "That should produce some evidence."
"Sir, that would invalidate any charges you might have in mind," the big Melgar objected in a maddeningly humble tone. "Even as a licensed investigator, you have no authority to rummage through personal belongings. Those grips are locked. I'm afraid your best recourse is to allow us to depart with a stern menacing warning."
"I sometimes suspect you are the true brains of our partnership, Wickett."
"I should not dispute such an insight, sir."
The Dire Wolf raised a hand toward the suitcases. "Pick them up, Wickett. I'm going to flag down a taxi. You guys have seen me move a few times now. You know I can tag both of you if you run in different directions and drag you around like sacks of laundry. So nothing cute."
"How tedious," Thicke grumbled. "Mr Bane, you can be very common."
"Whatever works." The Dire Wolf waved as a yellow cab approached and the driver slid open to the curb. "Thicke, get in front. Wickett, in back with me. I don't want you behind me or close to the wheel for any tricks. Let's go. As they settled themselves, he said to the driver, "Take us to the Shultis Spa by Rockefeller Center."
"I know that place," the cabbie acknowledged. "Meter's running."
IV.
Having phoned ahead, Bane was met at the entrance by three exceptionally huge and intimidating men in dark suits, wearing opaque sunglasses. They kept watchful eyes on Wickett and Thicke as the two exited, then nodded to the Dire Wolf.
"Mr Shultis sent us in case you needed any assistance," said the largest guard. He was a very dark black man with a nearly shaven head and a slight hint of a French accent. For a second, his grim mannerisms slipped. "Although from what I know of you, I doubt you need help."
Bane said nothing, still fighting his own temper. All six men marched through a crowded lobby and entered another private elevator built into the side of a marble pillar in one corner. Considering the bulk of the three guards and of Wickett, it was a squeeze to cram everyone in for a single trip.
Neither assistant was to be seen in Shultis' imperial office. The broken old man sat in his wheelchair, hands folded in his lap. As the party arrived, Shultis told Bane, "Well, that was snappy. I was dreading an investigation that would drag on forver."
"I do my best," said the Dire Wolf.
"This is rather dodgy," Thicke objected. "I don't know Methuselah here from my childhood nanny. Where is the customer we allegedly, and I stress the word, allegedly took advantage of?"
"You fool! You damned simpering spoiled upper class brat! Can't you see that I am Jacob Shultis? This is what your poison did to me."
Bane was scrutinizing both grifters intently as the situation sank in. Everything from pupil dilation to tautness in the neck muscles to how deep the intake of breath lasted, added up. Shultis' decrepitude was news to them. There was a remote chance that both men were consummate actors but he dismissed that. Thicke was dim enough that he couldn't fake a reaction that would fool a toddler.
Wickett and Thicke exchanged stupefied glances. Even the big Melgar's stoic face showed shock. Then they both turn to face Bane's enraged glare.
"Not only have you aged this man twenty years, you hurt everyone else you sold your Alchemy gunk to," the Dire Wolf announced. "Aside from Shultis here, there was the Neighborhood Garden that you poisoned and Papa Ferraro's new Mercedes that you totaled. Who else?"
"No one, I swear!" burst from Thicke but he instantly recanted. "No, wait. Last night, that charming young gel purchased the weight loss lotion. Agadol had it marked as 'thinnerer' on the label."
"Give me her number!" Bane roared in a tone he seldom used. Even the tough guards gave a start, and Thicke immediately rattled off the information.
Yanking out his Link, the Dire Wolf luckily had his call answered. "Hello? Listen closely please, this is a medical emergency. That weight loss lotion you bought yesterday, have you applied it? No? Not even a little bit? Thank God. Miss, I must urge you to place it far out of reach until someone can arrive to destroy it. It's poison. Yes. I'm completely serious. The men who sold it are frauds who are their way to prison."
"Steady on, Bane," Thicke protested.
Ignoring the man, the Dire Wolf continued. "Yes. I'm a private investigator on this fraud case. You can reach me at the number of my call. All right. You're lucky all right, you ducked a bullet this time." Bane broke the connection and swung his murderous gaze on the two men. "Anyone else?"
"No, no, not at all." Thicke cringed before the expression of those grey eyes, which had unsettled men much more hardened than he was.
"That was indeed the full extent of our sales," added Wickett.
"Lucky for you! If that woman had turned into a sort of concentration camp victim, I don't think your lives would last another minute. I'm claiming your luggage, I'll dispose of any Alchemy that might be hidden in it. That's why I'm also going to search you both."
"Oh, I hardly think so..." began Thicke.
"Neither of you can risk a meeting with the police," Bane told them. "Wickett, whatever your real name is, you're a Melgar from Androval. Any ID you may have bought would be exposed as fake easily enough. And Thicke, you have outstanding warrants in your name across a few states. You can't go to the cops over anything we do any more than we can drag you to them."
"Oh, jolly good, we'll be on our way then." Thicke turned toward the elevator door and froze at the gleeful anticipation of violence on the guards' faces. "Tush, what is this? It's in everyone's interest to dismiss us and leave this unfortunate episode behind us. Don't let's linger on the past."
Bane sighed. "Mr Shultis, you've suffered the most. What do you think should happen to Wickett and Thicke?"
The dilapidated wreck in the wheelchair wheezed and coughed before answering. "I have never been involved with murder, it's a mortal sin. I'm tempted to have their bodies weighted and dropped in the Hudson, but no... If they can't be thrown behind bars, they should at least be punished somehow. Ajax, Sean, Ned, would you have any problem breaking their knees and elbows?"
"Not at all, sir," was the instant reply. A second guard added, "We could leave them flopping around way out in Jersey if you like."
At this point, Graham Thicke rolled his eyes up so the whites showed and sagged limply to the carpeting. Wickett was far enough out of reach that he reached his partner to late to break the fall.
"Never saw a healthy young man up and faint like that," Shultis cackled. "Pitiful. What a weakling."
"He'll be fine. Thicke has always been a drama queen." Bane watched at the Melgar helped his groggy partner up onto the couch. "I think I have a plan, if you go along with it, Mr Shultis."
"Why not? You've handled this satisfactorily so far."
"I'm going to confiscate everything these two low-lives have on them. Cash, keys, breath mints, whatever. Even search the lining of their clothes and inside their shoes. I want to make sure they don't have any more Alchemical junk hidden inside a lighter or something. And I'm sure they're carrying some credit cards that belong to other people."
"You wound my pride," muttered Thicke, who was loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt. "I question your breeding."
"Then I'm going to place them on a Greyhound to some dismal city. Detroit maybe, or Gary, Indiana. They'll survive a day without food. And if they know what's good for them, they'll never cross my line of sight again. If you think your guards would agree, Mt Shultis, I'd like having one of them accompany these two to make sure they don't get off early. He can return here the same way."
"I'd be glad to do it, sir," volunteered the black man promptly. "It breaks my heart to see you this way. Maybe they'll try to make a run for it. I'd be forced to, well, hurt them a little."
"That would be a shame," added a second guard.
"Very well. Go ahead. You're on the expense account during the trip, Ajax, find the best meals you can on the way back. Now, Mr Bane, have you anything else to suggest?"
"Yeah, there is one thing, now that I think of it. Can you swing buying a new Mercedes for someone? These dogs wrecked a beautiful car that a man broke his back to save up for."
"Done and done," Shultis replied. "It'll be it here tomorrow by noon. You can pick it up, just get me the necessary information to transfer title to your friend. One of my lawyers will handle the paperwork."
"Then that ends this case on the best note we can manage," Bane said. "I only wish we could restore you to your natural age."
Shultis laughed, which made him wheeze for a minute before he could continue. "Hell, it's my own fault, son for being rash. I've always learned the hard way every time!"
10/7/2021
3/20/2019
I.
Bane's coffee table was strewn with disordered newspapers. One of his peculiar traits was that he never listened to music or watched movies, but he had a passion for local newspapers. Every few days, he stopped at a store in Times Square and picked up an armful of local papers. Sometimes he concentrated on newspapers from New York State, but as often he bought a dozen papers from around the world, as long as they were in English.
Today, he was growing more restless and annoyed with every page that he pored over and tossed aside. Many of his most dangerous cases had begun with a brief suggestive item in an obscure paper from some backwoods, but at the moment there seemed to be nothing anywhere indicating Midnight War activity that might need his attention.
In his early sixties, the Dire Wolf remained lean and active. The black turtleneck showed no thickening around the middle, the short black hair was only speckled with grey strands. But the infamous pale eyes were getting angry as he neared the end of the stack. Maybe reporting wasn't what it once had been. He found fewer and fewer reports of bizarre creatures being spotted or bursts of unexplained disappearances. Bane slammed the last paper down and leaned back on his couch as his Link buzzed.
The screen showed a number he didn't recognize. More and more, he regretted closing his office and putting the Dire Wolf Agency on an appointments only basis. He wasn't ready for retirement. A lifetime of Midnight War had left him with a permanent appetite for stress and action and now he realized how eagerly he was hoping this might be a case. "Yeah, hello?"
"Mr Bane?" squeaked an elderly man's voice. "Jeremy Bane?"
"That's right. Who are you?"
"Oh thank God, I had the damndest time getting a number I could reach you at. This is Jacob Shultis. You may have heard of me, I own some real estate."
That's an understatement, Bane thought. Shultis was famous for his luxury spas across the Tri-State area. "Sure. What is it you want with me?"
"Something terrible has happened. It's fantastic, I don't know if anyone would believe me if they didn't see for themselves. Can we meet?"
"Okay," Bane said, visibly perking up at the words 'terrible' and 'fantastic.' "I would rather not do business at my home. Do you have an office?"
"Yes. Right now, I'm opposite Rockefeller Center. You can see that stupid statue from my window. Can you please come right away, I am more distressed than any of my divorces made me."
"I'm in Queens," Bane told him. "I can leave immediately. Give me the address. Okay. I'm on my way." The Dire Wolf jumped to his feet, almost hopping up and down at the prospect of some excitement. This is ridiculous, he thought, I'm giddy at the idea of risking my life when I don't have to.
Even retired, he wore the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes every day, just as he always had the matched silver daggers strapped under his sleeves. It only took a second to tug on the black sport jacket. Heading for the door, he unlocked the reinforced cabinet and took out his long-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 in its holster which he fastened to his belt behind the left hip. When he stepped outside, he heard the reassuring buzzes and clicks of the security alarms arming themselves.
The dark green Mustang was parked in the short gravel driveway next to his house. Bane never left it without a full tank and checking the tires and oil. He lived like a fighter pilot or firefighter always ready for the call. In a few seconds, he was pulling out into the side street and heading for Manhattan.
The Shultis Health Spa occupied the bottom half of a gleaming chrome spike of a building that rose forty stories high. Bane was admitted down a ramp into an underground parking garage where a trim young man in a stylish business suit met him.
"Mr Bane? Hello, my name is Stimmel. I'll be bringing you directly to Mr Shultis."
"Fine." Chirping his car doors locked with his key fob, Bane went with the man past a double pair of doors to a private elevator set in a concrete pillar. The door hissed open as they approached and the cage rose without Stimmel touching any buttons.
"There are a few things you might need to know," the aide said in the brief ride. "Mr Shultis does not care for physical contact, so please do not offer to shake hands. You might find the suite warmer than usual, but that's his preference. Of course, I will be present along with his attendant."
"Any idea what he wants with me?" Bane asked. They reached the fortieth floor as the door opened with a chime.
"Here we are," said Stimmel. He led the Dire Wolf into a high-ceilinged chamber forty feet to each side, with windows taking up an entire wall overlooking Park Avenue far below. The decor was old-fashioned elegance, real wooden walls and solid mahogany furniture. A golden carpet inches thick. Bookcases filled with matching reference works were broken up by statuary and an original Vasquez oil of a rearing stallion. Immediately to their right as they entered was a desk from behind which a gorgeous redhead in a tight yellow dress rose to flash an expensive smile at them.
But all of Bane's attention was focused on the figure in the motorized wheelchair. Bundled in a heavy wool robe with a blanket over his legs, at least in his early eighties and badly preserved at that, the man seemed to be a frail bundle of skin covering bones. The prominent nose nearly met a pointed chin. Not much hair remained on the round cranium.
"I'm so glad you came!" crackled the dry voice. "Please, please, have a seat on the couch there. If anyone can help me, I know you can."
Remembering not to approach closely, Bane remained beyond arm's length. He was puzzled enough not to sit down as suggested. "Jacob Shultis...?"
"Yes. Unhappily enough. You are no doubt remembering pictures of me in the papers. No wonder you seem confused. Mr Bane, I am fifty-seven years old."
II.
Lowering himself to the couch, the Dire Wolf said, "Tell me everything."
"Yes, yes. Alan, Fran, please go down to the lobby and enjoy a smoothie for a few minutes."
The redhead seemed dubious. "Sir, are you sure you won't need us?"
"Heh, quite sure. With this man here, I am safer now than I have been in months. Go now. Take your time." After his two assistants had exited in the elevator, Shultis made his chair spin around to face his visitor straight on. "So, Mr Bane. I have heard wild stories and rumors about you for many years. And being curious by nature, I have even had some investigators do a little research. It seems that the tall tales of the Dire Wolf are if anything understatements."
Blunt by nature, Bane simply said, "What happened to you?"
"Heh. Very well. I have been seeing a delightful young woman from the Carmody family. We get along very well. But, to be honest, I'm pushing sixty and she was barely leaving twenty-one behind. All the cruises and water-skiing and concerts were wearing me out. I could see she would soon be growing tired of me growing tired too often."
"Got it so far."
"I have been following your clandestine Midnight War for years now. Astonishing how much goes on in the dead of night that the media ignore or never learn about. I heard about two men who were offering a new vitality serum not available to the general public. I met them and tried a sample. For a stiff price, I might add."
When Shultis paused, Bane simply said, "Go on."
"It worked within minutes. I felt invigorated. Full of energy, eagerness, snap crackle and pop so to speak. It was wonderful. For a week. Then my world collapsed. I woke up one morning weary and feeble, just as you see me now. My personal physician was horrified and still has absolutely no idea what to say."
"Hmm. Sounds like the miracle serum charged you up but also burned you out in the process. You're worse off than you were before."
"Absolutely." The ravaged face looked away as tears welled up in those bloodshot eyes. "What a horrible thing to do to someone! It's an abominable crime. I have not been able to locate the two fiends who took away twenty years of my life. I was ready to quietly take an overdose of medicine but then I thought of you..."
Bane nodded. "You want me to find these two for you."
"Yes! Yes. I don't fool myself into thinking they can reverse the process but at least I can see they are punished for what they did."
"All right. This sounds like Alchemy to me. I know a few masters of the Great Art who might be able to help. Describe these two men."
"Better than that, I can give you their names. I checked their IDs. Graham Thicke and Ian Wickett."
To Shultis' surprise, Bane buried his face in his hands and groaned. "THOSE two again! I wish they would fall off the Earth. The worst con artists since Doc Valentine. Every time they show up, people are robbed and swindled and betrayed. And now they're dabbling in Midnight War crimes."
"You know them then?"
"Too well!" Bane jumped to his feet. His hyperactive metabolism made it difficult for him to sit still more than a few minutes. "I always took it easy on them. They're grifters without a shred of conscience between them, but compared to the monsters I usually fight, they seemed harmless. Last time we met, I let them go. Not any more. I'll drag them in by their heels."
The withered old man grinned and clapped his hands together with a clacking sound. "That's the Dire Wolf I was hoping to meet. Name any fee you want, run up any expenses necessary. I'll place millions at your disposal."
"No. Write me a check for a flat one thousand. That establishes you as my client. It gives me certain legal advantages when dealing with the police."
"But... I can pay whatever you want, Mr Bane."
The Dire Wolf stared down at the shriveled figure in the wheelchair. "To tell you the truth, sir, I'd go after them even if you don't hire me. I'm angry now."
III.
For the first time in weeks, Bane left his Mustang in the space he leased at the IMPERIAL GARAGE and strode brusquely out onto 40th Street. Even after he had closed his office nearby, keeping this space available had seemed worth it to him. On a late Friday afternoon like today, he could make better speed around Midtown on foot. Holding his Link up by his ear, the Dire Wolf made call after call to his sources as he sprinted along the sidewalks.
A tense forty-five minutes of questioning Jacob Shultis had drawn out every possible detail about the meeting with Wickett and Thicke, from their clothing to the slightest phrase they had spoken. As he wove in and out of the crowds without once brushing up against anyone, part of Bane's trained mind was analyzing the conversation for any hints on where to find them.
At 42nd Street, he swung left. This area had changed dramatically since the most hectic days of the Midnight War. Gone were the rows of second-run movie theaters and strip clubs, used book stores and shady gambling joints. Everything was a bright colorful tourist trap now. This glossiness and glitter annoyed Bane, it meant his most useful hunting grounds had been lost.
Finally, on Eighth Avenue up near 50th Street, the Dire Wolf found one of his best sources. Sitting by a propped open door of an Italian restaurant called Hugry Bambino was an immensely fat middle-aged woman with long white hair done up in an elaborate pattern atop her head. In her long black dress, Mama Ferraro soaked up the warm late March sun with the delight of a cat. She saw the grim figure in black walking toward her and she laughed out loud.
"Mama Ferraro!" Bane said, shaking her offered hand. "No, don't trouble yourself getting up. I'm on a job, I won't be here long."
"Long time no see, Jeremy," she replied. "How have you been? How is that little blonde girlfriend of yours, the mind-reader?"
"She's fine. She has a teaching job." Bane stepped closer and waited until no one was close before continuing in a lower voice. "I know when I need information in a hurry, I should check with you first. You keep track of everything weird or eerie in this neighborhood."
"It's what I live for. I'm a gossip to the bone. Tell me, paisan, how can I help you?"
Bane described two men who seemed to be in their thirties. One was a slightly built fellow with a bland infoffensive face and light brown hair, and his companion was much bigger and more imposing. Both dressed extremely well to the point of foppishness. They spoke with a posh upper class British accent that sometimes seemed artificial.
Before he could name the suspects, he was taken aback by the bile with which Mama Ferraro spat, "I know them, Jeremy! May their lives be bitter and miserable to the end of their days. Do you know what they did to Papa?"
"No."
"All his life he dreamed of owning a nice car. He and I, we worked long hours for years to build up this restaurant, hiring the best chefs we could afford and encouraging regular customers. Papa finally bought a new Mercedes in January. He kept it as shiny and spotless as the new snow on Christmas morning. Then those hyenas Wickett and Thicke turned up."
Bane squatted easily down next to the massive woman in her black dress, keeping his own voice low. "Graham Thicke, Ian Wickett. Tell me what they did."
"Fast talkers, untrustworthy talkers! Oh, I disliked them from the start. But you know Papa. He has a big soft heart like a red sofa cushion. They sold him an additive they claimed would make his Mercedes run so smooth it couldn't be heard AND it would double its mileage."
"Did it work?"
"At first, yes. Papa was so happy. He drove up to Albany and back without needing to fill the tank. The needle hardly moved. The car flew along the highway like a hawk. For a week, it was the wonder of his friends. Then, he started it up early one morning and the engine block cracked in half with a noise that broke his heart to hear. Coolant and oil poured out onto the garage floor."
Bane shook his head. "I am so sorry to hear that. Mama, I can tell you that these crooks have ruined another man's life as well. They sold him a miracle serum that did irreparable harm. Do you know where I can find Wickett and Thicke?"
"As if we didn't try to confront them, my friend. We even took the big boy from our kitchen with us, Louie. You've seen him. But they were no longer staying at the hotel they had given us as an address." She searched his face and smiled wickedly. "I would love to see you track these men down, Jeremy. My poor Papa will never be the same after having to junk his car."
The Dire Wolf's expression grew even more stern than his usual scowl. "They're going to regret all they've done, Mama."
"Ah, you know who you might want to talk to? The man with the rooftop garden, Benny Jack the Farmer. Over by the river, you know?"
"He has been dealing with these two?"
"I think so, buddy," the woman admitted. "I am not sure. But last week he came in for his usual veal and wine, Benny Jack was excited. He said he was going to take a chance on a new fertilizer that was not on the market yet. He even used the word 'miracle.'"
Bane straightened up, eager to get back on the chase. "Maybe I can reach him in time. Here, for your vigilance." He placed two folded fifty dollar bills on her lap. "You have saved a few lives over the years by pointing me in the right direction, Mama Ferraro."
"Glad to help," she said. "I will never be able to repay you for when those Winter Snow hoodlums came in to break up our dining room because we would not pay protection. You folded ten dangerous men up like balloon animals. They never came back."
The Dire Wolf nodded politely, spun on his heel and took off a full run toward the west where the Hudson was only a few blocks away. Seeing him race off, Mama Ferraro laughed again. "Oh yes. Go get them, boy."
IV.
Except for two satellite dishes and a kiosk over the stairs leading down, the entire roof of the ancient red brick building was taken up by the Neighborhood Garden. It had started as one man's retirement hobby but over time all the tenants had chipped in. Bane had been here once before, in the Spring when bright green decorative plants filled rows of pots, and where vegetables and flowers blazed brilliant in rows of crates filled with dirt. People all over the West Side came here to see it and have their spirits lifted.
Gone now. Everything was dead. Brown, lifeless brittle leaves drooped wherever he looked. It looked worse than the dead of winter when at least a few plants hung on.
As the Dire Wolf stared glumly at the ruin, he heard a footstep behind him. Not a threat. It was tentative, almost timid step coming up the stairs from the fifth floor below them.
Bane turned to see the stricken face of Benny Jack watching him. A short black man with a sparse beard and mustache, he normally had a warm smile and an almost serene manner. That was gone now, too.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am to see this," the Dire Wolf said. "What could have done it?"
"It's mah fault," answered Benny Jack. "Bad judgement on my part, I haveta take the blame. These two sharpies talked me into trying a new fertilizer spray, they claimed the big companies wouldn't allow it to be sold in stores because it worked too good. You can see they were liars."
Bane shook his head and moved down the row of earth-laden boxes where now nothing lived. "It looks like they sold you poison, Benny."
"Yeah. Guess so. I tried it on a few plants and they perked up remarkably spry. So I sprayed everything. For a week, this roof was a rainbow of growing living things. In this drab dull awful neighborhood, it was like... I dunno, an oasis in a wasteland."
"Benny, I'm looking for the men who sold you that spray. They've been victimizing people all over the city. Did they give you an address?"
"They said they was gonna be at the Paradise Hotel, not far away. You know it?"
"Yes. If they're there, I intend to bring them in and press charges for everything from fraud to illegal distribution of dangerous chemicals. If I can manage not to beat the hell out of them. Good luck, Benny."
As Bane hurried toward the covered stairs, he paused when Benny Jack spoke up again.
"This isn't the end," the man declared. "Goddam, every time I get knocked down, I get up again. The people in this building are already bringing up fresh earth and seeds and saplings. We'll build the Garden a second time."
Bane raised a hand in salute. "That's the spirit I like to see. I wouldn't expect less from a farmer." He rushed down the stairs, descended five flights and ran out of the dingy foyer like a real wolf trying to catch a rabbit.
At a brisk walk, Jeremy Bane covered distance more quickly than most people could run. Passersby stepped aside as they saw him hurtling toward, more than a few stared. Bane didn't care. He was surprised at how angry he was becoming. Considering how many tortured bodies and bloody carnage he had seen in a long career, for some reason he was increasingly furious over what Wickett and Thicke were doing.
He took a moment to stand in front of a used furniture store and took some deep calming breaths. One of Teacher Chael's first lessons had been to show how anger led to mistakes and mistakes led to defeat. Bane stared at the kitchen tables in the store window without seeing them and after a few minutes he felt more in control of himself.
At 17th Street, he swung left and jogged toward the Lower East Side. Even this part of the Bowery, once known as Skid Row, had been cleaned up considerably since its hellhole days. The Paradise Hotel still stood as sordid and disreputable as ever on a corner with a vacant lot strewn with debris next to it. Aside from the normal drug deals and prostitution and gang activities that might be expected, quite a few Midnight War battles had been secretly fought in those mildwed halls and tatty rooms. In fact, this had been a twenty-year-old Bane's first encounter decades ago with the shadowy world few people suspected. That Nekrosan sorcerer with the Growler, what had been his name? Yorick. After the Hamlet reference.
Bane crossed over and began slowly circling the block, coming completely around and standing in front of the entrance before repeating his route. At the rear of the hotel was a paved courtyard holding a rusted out pick-up truck and a pair of bicycles chained to a streetlamp. He came around again, and as he passed the Paradise, he spotted a curtain on a third floor window move. Hopefully, the old ruse was working.
Going past the courtyard, he slipped into a deep doorway of a pharmacy that had been closed and boarded up for years. How many desperate people had gone straight from that drugstore to get their fix in the hotel rooms nearby? How many had come out to buy or sell their pain pills? Bane saw the rear exit of the Paradise slam open and two exceedingly well-dressed men scrambled out. The bigger one was carrying a suitcase in each hand, the other only held a briefcase.
Before they could take three full steps, Bane had vaulted across the courtyard and smashed into the bigger man in a full flying tackle. They went down in a brief tangle, then the Dire Wolf sprang up again in time to trip the other man and send him to the asphalt as well.
"Hold it!" he snapped. "You boys have got a story to tell!"
"This is a rum go," answered the smaller man. He was up on his hands and knees, more offended than hurt. He even took a second to tug down his jacket and pull his jacket sleeves into place where they had ridden up.
Bane disregarded him for a second, Thicke was not the physical threat. Facing him was a wide-shouldered man several inches over six feet tall, with unusually large hands. The bowler hat had somehow remained planted on the impeccably cut brown hair. Letting go of the suitcases, Ian Wickett curled those big hands into fists and took a menacing step forward.
"Forget it," the Dire Wolf warned. "I know you're a Melgar. You're strong and hard to hurt, but it won't help you now."
Wickett rushed forward and was met with a high side kick to the chest that stopped him could. The breath was driven out of his lungs with a gush. Closing in, Bane drove a left cross, right cross and left backhand that rocked the Melgar's head from side to side so his brain slid back and forth within his skull. The blows were sharp and crisp. Wickett dropped to one knee, still trying to raise his hands. Bane knelt over him and crashed an elbow to the back of the neck that would have killed a normal Human receiving it.
Wheeling around, the Dire Wolf pointed accusingly at the other grifter. "Stay where you are. No sneaking off."
Graham Thicke had a pleasant enough face, though the chin was weak and both ears unfortunately stood out from the skull. "I must say it brings me no joy to encounter you again. Have you run out of werewolves and serial killers to chase?"
"You two are bad enough," Bane said. "You heartless conmen! It doesn't bother you at all how many people you've made miserable?"
"A shrewd aphorism advises us to never smarten up a chump or give a sucker an even break. See here, old man. We are actually performing a valuable service. One learns prudence from sad experience. The customers we, ah, fleece end up wiser from the experience. You can see that, can't you?"
"Yeah. And if I break your jaw in a couple places, it'll heal up stronger."
Thicke visibly went pale at the threat. "Oh, well, if you're going to be unreasonable..."
Seeing from his peripheral vision that Wickett was rising, Bane stepped to one side. "Get over by your accomplice so I can watch you both of you. No, never mind the luggage right now."
A bit shakily, the big Melgar obeyed. "Sorry about that, sir," he said to his partner."
"Quite all right, Wickett," Thicke assured him. "Mr Bane here is a bit more proficient than the average person. But I say, what IS your grievance with us? You seem to be taking our game rather personally."
Bane remained where he was, arms folded across his chest. In the afternoon sunlight, his grey eyes flashed alarmingly bright and cold. "You boys have gotten hold of some Alchemical solutions."
"Well... yes. We happened to be visiting a chap named Agadol when he gave up the ghost. Went to join the choir invisible, one might say. The dear old thing was at least two hundred and looked it, so evidently even his Alchemy could not keep body and soul together any longer."
"I know Agadol. As Alchemists go, he wasn't that skilled at the Great Art. Mostly he made up love potions and good luck powders that sometimes worked but more often were useless or even harmful. So after he died, you two looted his workroom?"
"What an ungenerous phrase," Thicke said. "Certainly the departed had no further use for his miraculous creations. On the other hand, our coffers have been decidely anemic lately. Don't you think Agadol would have approved of our helping ourselves, Wickett? To remember him by?"
"Quite."
"Enough. Let's get some uniformed officers here to drive you jokers downtown for some questioning. I'm not arresting you. I am authorized to detain you on behalf of my client until law enforcement gets here." He reached to unclip his Link from its place on his belt.
"One moment, sir." Although Wickett used the subdued tones of a valet, his size and sheer presence gave him authority. "If I may say so, the grounds for arresting us seem insufficient. Are there any traces of the serums we allegedly sold to these gullible souls? Were any papers signed? Or even any witnesses? I think not. If through some unlikely train of events we should be brought to court, what can you present to a judge?"
"Oh, jolly good, old thing," said Thicke. "Well put."
"I'll search your suitcases over there," Bane growled. "That should produce some evidence."
"Sir, that would invalidate any charges you might have in mind," the big Melgar objected in a maddeningly humble tone. "Even as a licensed investigator, you have no authority to rummage through personal belongings. Those grips are locked. I'm afraid your best recourse is to allow us to depart with a stern menacing warning."
"I sometimes suspect you are the true brains of our partnership, Wickett."
"I should not dispute such an insight, sir."
The Dire Wolf raised a hand toward the suitcases. "Pick them up, Wickett. I'm going to flag down a taxi. You guys have seen me move a few times now. You know I can tag both of you if you run in different directions and drag you around like sacks of laundry. So nothing cute."
"How tedious," Thicke grumbled. "Mr Bane, you can be very common."
"Whatever works." The Dire Wolf waved as a yellow cab approached and the driver slid open to the curb. "Thicke, get in front. Wickett, in back with me. I don't want you behind me or close to the wheel for any tricks. Let's go. As they settled themselves, he said to the driver, "Take us to the Shultis Spa by Rockefeller Center."
"I know that place," the cabbie acknowledged. "Meter's running."
IV.
Having phoned ahead, Bane was met at the entrance by three exceptionally huge and intimidating men in dark suits, wearing opaque sunglasses. They kept watchful eyes on Wickett and Thicke as the two exited, then nodded to the Dire Wolf.
"Mr Shultis sent us in case you needed any assistance," said the largest guard. He was a very dark black man with a nearly shaven head and a slight hint of a French accent. For a second, his grim mannerisms slipped. "Although from what I know of you, I doubt you need help."
Bane said nothing, still fighting his own temper. All six men marched through a crowded lobby and entered another private elevator built into the side of a marble pillar in one corner. Considering the bulk of the three guards and of Wickett, it was a squeeze to cram everyone in for a single trip.
Neither assistant was to be seen in Shultis' imperial office. The broken old man sat in his wheelchair, hands folded in his lap. As the party arrived, Shultis told Bane, "Well, that was snappy. I was dreading an investigation that would drag on forver."
"I do my best," said the Dire Wolf.
"This is rather dodgy," Thicke objected. "I don't know Methuselah here from my childhood nanny. Where is the customer we allegedly, and I stress the word, allegedly took advantage of?"
"You fool! You damned simpering spoiled upper class brat! Can't you see that I am Jacob Shultis? This is what your poison did to me."
Bane was scrutinizing both grifters intently as the situation sank in. Everything from pupil dilation to tautness in the neck muscles to how deep the intake of breath lasted, added up. Shultis' decrepitude was news to them. There was a remote chance that both men were consummate actors but he dismissed that. Thicke was dim enough that he couldn't fake a reaction that would fool a toddler.
Wickett and Thicke exchanged stupefied glances. Even the big Melgar's stoic face showed shock. Then they both turn to face Bane's enraged glare.
"Not only have you aged this man twenty years, you hurt everyone else you sold your Alchemy gunk to," the Dire Wolf announced. "Aside from Shultis here, there was the Neighborhood Garden that you poisoned and Papa Ferraro's new Mercedes that you totaled. Who else?"
"No one, I swear!" burst from Thicke but he instantly recanted. "No, wait. Last night, that charming young gel purchased the weight loss lotion. Agadol had it marked as 'thinnerer' on the label."
"Give me her number!" Bane roared in a tone he seldom used. Even the tough guards gave a start, and Thicke immediately rattled off the information.
Yanking out his Link, the Dire Wolf luckily had his call answered. "Hello? Listen closely please, this is a medical emergency. That weight loss lotion you bought yesterday, have you applied it? No? Not even a little bit? Thank God. Miss, I must urge you to place it far out of reach until someone can arrive to destroy it. It's poison. Yes. I'm completely serious. The men who sold it are frauds who are their way to prison."
"Steady on, Bane," Thicke protested.
Ignoring the man, the Dire Wolf continued. "Yes. I'm a private investigator on this fraud case. You can reach me at the number of my call. All right. You're lucky all right, you ducked a bullet this time." Bane broke the connection and swung his murderous gaze on the two men. "Anyone else?"
"No, no, not at all." Thicke cringed before the expression of those grey eyes, which had unsettled men much more hardened than he was.
"That was indeed the full extent of our sales," added Wickett.
"Lucky for you! If that woman had turned into a sort of concentration camp victim, I don't think your lives would last another minute. I'm claiming your luggage, I'll dispose of any Alchemy that might be hidden in it. That's why I'm also going to search you both."
"Oh, I hardly think so..." began Thicke.
"Neither of you can risk a meeting with the police," Bane told them. "Wickett, whatever your real name is, you're a Melgar from Androval. Any ID you may have bought would be exposed as fake easily enough. And Thicke, you have outstanding warrants in your name across a few states. You can't go to the cops over anything we do any more than we can drag you to them."
"Oh, jolly good, we'll be on our way then." Thicke turned toward the elevator door and froze at the gleeful anticipation of violence on the guards' faces. "Tush, what is this? It's in everyone's interest to dismiss us and leave this unfortunate episode behind us. Don't let's linger on the past."
Bane sighed. "Mr Shultis, you've suffered the most. What do you think should happen to Wickett and Thicke?"
The dilapidated wreck in the wheelchair wheezed and coughed before answering. "I have never been involved with murder, it's a mortal sin. I'm tempted to have their bodies weighted and dropped in the Hudson, but no... If they can't be thrown behind bars, they should at least be punished somehow. Ajax, Sean, Ned, would you have any problem breaking their knees and elbows?"
"Not at all, sir," was the instant reply. A second guard added, "We could leave them flopping around way out in Jersey if you like."
At this point, Graham Thicke rolled his eyes up so the whites showed and sagged limply to the carpeting. Wickett was far enough out of reach that he reached his partner to late to break the fall.
"Never saw a healthy young man up and faint like that," Shultis cackled. "Pitiful. What a weakling."
"He'll be fine. Thicke has always been a drama queen." Bane watched at the Melgar helped his groggy partner up onto the couch. "I think I have a plan, if you go along with it, Mr Shultis."
"Why not? You've handled this satisfactorily so far."
"I'm going to confiscate everything these two low-lives have on them. Cash, keys, breath mints, whatever. Even search the lining of their clothes and inside their shoes. I want to make sure they don't have any more Alchemical junk hidden inside a lighter or something. And I'm sure they're carrying some credit cards that belong to other people."
"You wound my pride," muttered Thicke, who was loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt. "I question your breeding."
"Then I'm going to place them on a Greyhound to some dismal city. Detroit maybe, or Gary, Indiana. They'll survive a day without food. And if they know what's good for them, they'll never cross my line of sight again. If you think your guards would agree, Mt Shultis, I'd like having one of them accompany these two to make sure they don't get off early. He can return here the same way."
"I'd be glad to do it, sir," volunteered the black man promptly. "It breaks my heart to see you this way. Maybe they'll try to make a run for it. I'd be forced to, well, hurt them a little."
"That would be a shame," added a second guard.
"Very well. Go ahead. You're on the expense account during the trip, Ajax, find the best meals you can on the way back. Now, Mr Bane, have you anything else to suggest?"
"Yeah, there is one thing, now that I think of it. Can you swing buying a new Mercedes for someone? These dogs wrecked a beautiful car that a man broke his back to save up for."
"Done and done," Shultis replied. "It'll be it here tomorrow by noon. You can pick it up, just get me the necessary information to transfer title to your friend. One of my lawyers will handle the paperwork."
"Then that ends this case on the best note we can manage," Bane said. "I only wish we could restore you to your natural age."
Shultis laughed, which made him wheeze for a minute before he could continue. "Hell, it's my own fault, son for being rash. I've always learned the hard way every time!"
10/7/2021