Chapter 21 #3
The trickster set off again, and the wind followed.
It didn’t take it long to realize the trickster was following the rude man.
They weaved through busy thoroughfares packed with metal carts and tables full of fruits, vegetables, and dried sea things.
Then the trickster hopped off a curb, jogged across a street, weaving past cars, and followed the rude man down an alley.
Already, shop doors were opened and tables full of windup toys and trinkets were laid out.
The wind huffed. The rude man had disappeared.
The trickster paused, looking left then right.
A toothless old woman grinned at him. She wore a sun visor and was waving a paper fan, stirring her white hair.
The trickster put his hands behind his back and casually strolled past, eyeing her wares.
The wind jumped across a table full of plastic gold cats, all waving their paws in tandem.
It hopped from one paw to the next and then tumbled down when the trickster paused at the next table.
It was loaded with purses that smelled like vinyl and mothballs.
The wind sniffed one as the trickster rubbed a finger along the stiff not-leather.
A short man half-hidden in the doorway of the building asked, “Are you looking for something special?”
The trickster glanced at the man, noting the thin mustache over his lip and the scruff of black hair fringing the bald top.
The man wore a gray tank top that may have once been white, with sweat stains ringing the collar and his armpits.
His sweatpants were stained with oil splatter. He smelled like cabbage and toothpaste.
The trickster took his hand from the purse and pulled his sunglasses off. He slowly tucked them into the collar of his shirt. “I may be. What are you offering?”
At the table, the toothless woman laughed. The wind blew an irritated breath. It wasn’t polite to listen to conversations you weren’t a part of.
The mustached man stepped away from doorway, turning in to the building. “Come see,” he said over his shoulder.
The trickster started to follow, and the wind trailed after him.
“I wouldn’t,” the old woman called. “Lots of people go in, but none of them come out. Not one.”
The trickster stopped and turned to the old woman. The wind whistled as he gave her his brilliant Bard smile. “Thank you for the warning. But don’t worry, I’m not the least bit afraid.”
The old woman shook her head. “You should be. Idiot child.”
The trickster left her, striding through the open doorway. The mustached man had already reached the top of the stairs. He paused, his hand on the rail, and looked down at the trickster.
“Coming?”
“It depends.” The trickster smiled. “On a scale from one to ten, how upset are you?”
The mustached man snorted.
A door on the second floor flew open, and a boy and his grandmother hurried out. The boy slung a backpack over his shoulder and raced past the trickster. The grandmother tapped her cane as she jostled by.
The wind sped up the stairs, bumping over the curled and stained linoleum. It scraped across the thin carpet and tapped at the cracked-plaster walls. There were dozens of people in this building, family upon family. The wind could hear their morning yawns and sizzling bacon.
The trickster nodded good morning to a figment that tumbled down the stairs, cracked its head at the bottom, and then flew back to the top to repeat the messy end over and over again.
On the landing, the wind prodded the mustached man’s ankles. It flinched at the electric shock of illusion. It poked the man’s moustache and was zapped again.
There was something familiar about the man. Something . . .
Oh! That’s right. This was the man from the harbor. He and the rude man had been in the boat sending the giant sea creature after the boy.
They were conjurers.
They were . . .
What were they?
The mustached man stuck a metal key into his apartment door. 2C. The lock crunched and ground as he turned the bolt. The door hinges groaned as he swung it wide and gestured for the trickster to go in first.
The wind swirled over the dirt-crusted floor and took in the newspaper-covered walls.
Even the windows were blocked with newsprint.
Stacks of magazines littered the floor. It was one narrow room, cave-like and gloomy.
There were two twin beds on the floor, and a kitchen table with a small, muted TV playing a Celia Bard movie.
A pot of coffee was steaming on the counter, and a pan sizzled on the stove with two fried eggs.
The trickster stepped through the door and stared at the rude man holding a metal spatula.
His lips curved into a smile that reminded the wind of how the boy looked when he finally got to curl up in his favorite chair and finish the last chapter of a book he loved.
“Hi,” the trickster said, his voice quiet and wavering.
“Shut the door,” the rude man said. “Lock it. Soundproof and sightproof. Not a mouse hears a word. Not a bug sees a thing.”
The mustached man closed the door, turning the lock. It was a hard, jarring sound. He twisted his hand, and illusion soaked the room, blocking out the noise of the families above and below.
The wind swirled around, circling the apartment, spinning in the emotions jumping across the cluttered space. The trickster held himself still, although his muscles were so tense the wind wanted to bounce on them.
The rude man turned off the gas flame on the stove. He set the metal spatula on the counter. Slowly, he untied his apron, folded it, and then placed it on the kitchen table.
The trickster watched his every move.
The mustached man stood next to the trickster, watching him. Would he stop him if he tried to leave? The wind had a feeling he would.
The trickster swallowed, his throat tight, and the wind tapped his Adam’s apple.
“I’m sorry it took so long to come,” the trickster said. “It’s been—”
The rude man lunged across the kitchen and rammed the trickster against the wooden door. The trickster hit the door, and the breath flew out of him.
The rude man shoved his forearm against the trickster’s throat and yelled, “Luvic, you jerk! You killed us! What were you thinking? Do me a favor? Die for me? Really? Really, Luvic?”
“Lia,” the trickster gasped. “Can’t breathe.”
“Oh yeah. Can’t breathe? Too freaking bad.
Do you know how many times they’ve replayed March’s Last Defense since my funeral?
Ninety-three times. I hate that movie. I hate it.
Do you know what they’re saying on my tribute?
That I had a secret baby and a drug problem.
Are you kidding me? And that I was a mediocre actress.
Mediocre! And that my death was the best thing to happen to me, because it rocketed me to Elvis-level fame.
Do you know how many sightings there’ve been of Celia Bard since my death?
Apparently, I’ve been spotted in Istanbul, Rome, Gibraltar, and of course, LA, where my ‘love child’ lives.
I’m Elvis now. I’ll be haunting the world for decades.
What the crap, Luvic? How about you die for me, huh? How about it?”
The trickster’s face was turning sunset-red as he pushed at the rude man’s forearm. But then the man disappeared, and the citrus and pearl dust scented woman took his place. The wind shrieked and spun around.
The mustached man was gone too. Instead, the musician was there, smiling at his sister.
“Celia?”
“What?” the citrus and pearl dust scented woman snapped.
“You’re choking him.”
“Don’t care.”
“I care.”
“No, you don’t. You told me so just yesterday.”
“Well, now I do.”
“Why?”
The musician spread his hands.
The wind rode on the trickster’s wheezing breaths. “Lia,” he choked.
She let out a gusty sigh. “Fine.”
She dropped her arm, and the trickster dragged in a breath. He flashed a smile at the musician.
“Thanks, Raggie.”
The musician pulled back his fist and punched the trickster in the jaw. “You’re welcome.”