She had on a yellow paisley-print sundress that somehow left little to the imagination and yet everything and was precisely calculated to engender a paradoxical air of seductive innocence, so much so that Jackie Farrell had a terrible pang of guilt lance right through his guts as he dragged her by the shoulders over the glass countertop.
“You’ll hit a woman?” she screamed as he tossed her down to the floor and stood over her, doing his best to appear threatening and ominous.
“I didn't hit you,” he said. “And you and I know damn well you’re no woman.”
Truth be told, he wasn’t so sure he was right about that.
That is until her marble-sized pupils quadrupled in size as Jackie stared her down, morphing into a big bush-baby sadness, tears welling, begging for mercy but with just enough salacious glint to hint at what the carnal rewards of such relent might be. Above all the feelings that the eyes gave Jackie in his belly and other extremities, he knew one thing for certain now. This creature was not human.
He drew his trusty old .38 from its shoulder holster and squeezed a round into the creature's left knee.
She, “it” he knew (he hoped), howled in agony and moved to cradle the wound before Jackie stomped its left hand to the linoleum.
“You will pay for thisss,” the creature hissed, a long, forked tongue darting through the air, reaching for Jackie’s ankle in vain.
“Tell me where I can find him,” Jackie said, aiming the pistol at the face of the still-beautiful redhead, her hair immaculately coiffed to conjure adolescent memories of parentally forbidden pinup models. It didn’t do much good for Jackie keeping his breakfast down that she looked so damn good and that he had his sidearm trained on her head. The serpent tongue was a saving grace. It was enough to remind him in his bones that he wasn’t threatening some innocent woman but a fell hellspawn of clearly wicked allegiance.
“You’ll not get the Containers, you incompetent dick,” the creature said, its emphasis on the first noun indicating a capital “C” and on the second noun referencing Jackie’s profession and not his character.
“First of all, nobody calls us that anymore,” Jackie said. “I’m a private investigator. And second, I definitely will if you want to keep your head, beast.”
Jackie knelt and pressed the snub nose of the gun to the creature’s temple, its skin turning steely gray and scaly as the stress and fear progressively hampered the monster's ability to deploy its glamor magic. The sulfurous odor beginning to fill the air was further confirmation of the beast’s infernal origins, if any were still needed.
“Last chance,” Jackie said.
The creature let out something like a sigh of defeat and said, “Gold Star Pawn on 39th. Back room.”
“See? Not so hard.”
“Go to hell,” it spat.
“No, you,” Jackie said and ear-splittingly painted the whitish-teal floor with a splatter of deep red.
***
Earlier that day Jackie had gotten the call. A wealthy, to dramatically understate it, old man in a stereotypical mansion on a high hill. Jackie knew right away this would be the case of a lifetime because life was starting to imitate art. Didn’t Marlowe always get a call from some rich guy? Spenser too.
He climbed about twenty-too-many stairs to an ornate oak door and swung a big iron lionheaded knocker thrice.
A sucked-out-looking wraith of a fellow in a drab and faded once-black tuxedo answered promptly.
“Ahh, Mr. Farrell,” the man said. “Master Wellington is expecting you.”
Jackie hoped he wouldn’t be expected to call the old rich guy “master”. He wasn’t so comfortable with even the butler calling the old man that, but he supposed the butler was more than comfortable with it. His salary couldn’t be small, judging by the extravagant hilltop manor in which he served. Money will make people say a lot of silly stuff, Jackie reflected.
“You got yourself a name, Jeeves?”
“Yes, Mr. Farrell, I do indeed,” the butler said, declining to disclose what it was by leading Jackie on through a vaulted entryway, past a perfectly maintained Steinway and some kind of classical nude wrestling statue which, while Jackie had no idea about art, was obviously more expensive than his own car, and several times over at that.
They found Wellington in a vast mahogany-shelved library, sitting in a red-leather wingback, attired in a deep-purple silk smoking jacket, with a snifter of brandy on a wooden side table, a strangely out-of-place hand-knit pastel pink blanket covering him from the waste down. He stared out an enormous picture window to a verdant valley below, seemingly unaware that he’d just been joined by the two other men.
“Master Wellington,” called Jeeves (for Jackie couldn’t think of him any other way after no name was given). “I present Mr. John Farrell, the private eye.” There was the innuendo of derision in Jeeves’s tone and word choice.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” Jackie said.
Wellington said nothing, continued to stare blankly out onto the green valley.
“Apologies, Mr. Farrell,” Jeeves said. “Master Wellington is not well, you see. This is partly the reason for his summoning you.”
Jeeves seemingly glided to Wellington’s side and touched the latter softly on his shoulder. It was a gesture of unexpected tenderness and Jackie perceived in a flash not just Jeeves’s sense of duty but also the bonds of an old friendship. There was a sorrow in the touch, on Jeeves’s part.
“Oh,” Wellington said, suddenly aware of the room and the men about him. “Yes of course. What was that again?”
“Mr. Farrell, sir.”
“Oh yes. Thank you, Miles.”
Jackie suspected that Miles was a Christian name and not a surname. He also figured the butler would be forever “Jeeves” to him.
Miles/Jeeves excused himself as he motioned Jackie to take a seat on the taupe suede couch adjoining the leather chair in which Wellington sat.
There was an uncomfortable silence in which Wellington looked at Jackie with dead eyes, the old man having quickly reverted to the wordlessness which Jackie suspected was the norm.
Then a shock of recognition came into the old man’s weathered and withering face, some spark of joy that flew as quickly as it came and then he spoke something unexpected.
“Do you gamble, Mr. Farrell?”
“Some poker with my Army buddies on occasion.”
“That sounds lovely,” the old man said. “I refer of course to something a bit more high stakes. It has always been the ponies for me.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Jackie replied. “I can’t imagine someone like yourself getting in over his head.”
“Yes. Well the imagination would be the limiting factor in such a case as this.”
“I don’t follow.”
“No. Of course not. Let me explain.”
The man reached for his brandy, his movements frail and slow, and took a long sip. Placing the glass gently back on the table, he began his story.
“A few months ago I met a man. An elegant looking chap looking for a gentleman's wager. A kind of side bet on the races. I do go in for such sport and obliged. I assumed the stakes would amount to a fine car or some such thing. I have a Rolls-Royce or two to spare.”
Of course you would, Jackie thought.
“Imagine my surprise when the man asked me to wager my most cherished memories.”
Jackie cut in: “I still don’t follow, sir.”
“Nor did I at the time. Naturally I thought this fellow mad and so I accepted, his own wager being the deed to a delightful little country estate. I’ve no need of more land or property but then gambling is never quite about need. Or at least not in that sense.”
Jackie waited. None of it made any sense yet. Wellington stared outside again, then turned his attentions back to Jackie.
“In respect of your time, Mr. Farrell, I will make it short and say that I lost that race and with it every recollection of my late wife and daughter.”
A cold pit materialized in Jackie’s stomach as he struggled to understand what was being said. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it, but somehow he knew the old man was telling the truth and the horror of the situation was palpable.
“Sir,” Jackie said. “I still don’t understand.”
“Nor I, really, Mr. Farell.”
“Jackie, please.”
“Yes, Jackie, then.”
“What is it you’d like me to do for you, Mr. Wellington?”
“I want you to find this man, Jackie. And with him, I hope, my memories.”
“I beg your pardon, but I wouldn’t know the first thing about pursuing this, sir.”
“Well, a man of my stature makes a good number of helpful acquaintances, whether their motives are pure is a matter for debate, but I would need only for you to use the skills you already possess and for which you come highly recommended.”
“Go on.”
“I mean to say that I can point you in the right direction, due to some information I’ve acquired. But without being able to put my boots on the ground, as you might say, I’m afraid whatever fruit said information might bear would wither on the vine.”
Jackie found himself powerless to prevent his eyes from wandering to the man’s legs, concealed beneath the curious knit blanket.
“I suppose you are wondering if I am handicapped. I’d say no more than any man at my advanced age. I can walk to some degree but I’m in no shape to go chasing after memory-thieving villains. Villains of any kind for that matter. And of course there is the matter of my mind. There is a creeping dullness now. A kind of black void at the center of what I once felt to be myself. Miles has informed me of my family and certainly I can see them in photos. And I feel… something… This blanket. She made it for me. Miles tells me her name was Rebecca. She has passed now, along with my daughter, Laura. A car accident, I’m told. I am alone now...”
He trailed off and clutched tightly at the blanket.
“But the tragedy, Jackie, is that I feel I have always been so.”
A single tear fell from his glassy right eye, making a small dark spot on the knit blanket.
“It is not becoming for a man to cry, Jackie. Alas. But you may name your price for this job.”
“My standard rate is five hundred dollars per day plus expenses for which I’ll bill you. But I confess, Mr. Wellington, I find this all pretty hard to believe.”
“Should you take the case, I think you’ll find yourself revising that opinion in short order.”
Jackie rubbed the scruff on his chin, vainly lamented not having shaved so he’d have looked presentable for this sweet old man who had assumed, wrongly, would be a pain in the ass silver spoon type, and sighed.
“Okay. Sure. But no promises. I’ll do my best.”
“That is all one man may ask from another.”
“Where do I start, then? You said you knew some things.”
“Yes. I asked around my seedier connections and gleaned that we are searching for a man called by the moniker ‘The Collector’ and that his trail might be picked up at a pub called O’Malley’s off 5th street, downtown. This is where my investigative skills came to an immediate and grinding halt, I’m afraid.”
“O’Malley’s it is. A start is a start. I’ll be in touch.”
Jackie rose and shook hands with the old man. The latter’s grip was weak and clammy and by some strange electricity conveyed pleading. Jackie pledged silently to do all he could to help this man and to keep an open mind about whatever magic Wellington thought was afoot. His mind told him that this was all a bunch of nonsense. But his stomach and his prickly skin spoke another conclusion.
***
O’Malley’s was a dive par excellence, filled to bursting with a rough and dirty (in many senses) crowd. Raucous punk music permeated the air in an equal mixture with the stink of cheap cigarette smoke and the kind of talk that gave quick rise to brawling. Jackie was no sparkly clean Mormon missionary type, his black leather jacket and ratty gray t-shirt a far cry from a short-white button up and tie. But he felt about as out of place as one of those bicycle-propelled do-gooders might feel if happening upon and attempting to preach the good news to a dope den in the full swing of a grimy orgy.
Jackie sidled up to the bar and a guy with more rings in his nose than are on a shower curtain rod grunted what Jackie assumed was a request for an order.
“Guinness.”
When in Rome, he thought. Then again, the name was about the only Irish thing in the place. Most of the patrons were so tattooed it would have been impossible to accurately guess their ethnicity.
He figured it was a dangerous play, but Jackie was nothing if not a risk taker and he asked the gentlemen next to him, who was unlikely to be anything of the sort, if he knew anything about The Collector.
“Aye,” was the reply. “But it’s not a name I’d go spouting around.”
“I’m looking to buy,” Jackie said, another shot in the dark. Maybe if The Collector was out hustling old men for memories (whatever the hell that meant), he was also selling them.
“Are you now?”
Jackie settled on saying nothing. His bar mate’s face was inscrutable, unless tiger stripes needled permanently onto one’s face conveyed some meaning of which Jackie was unaware.
The striped man took a napkin from the bar and a pen from his coat and scribbled. He slid the folded paper surreptitiously in Jackie’s direction.
The napkin simply read: “Third door on the left.”
Jackie looked to his right to find a doorless opening that had the obligatory glowing “Exit” sign flickering dimly above it. He shot a questioning look at his temporary drinking buddy and received an affirmative nod.
Weaving in and out of a couple burly and very drunken men starting up a shoving match, Jackie reached the hallway. “Anarchy in the U.K.” kicked off in response to a guy with a pompadour and little black stars tattooed all over his undershirt-exposed arms slamming a fist into the jukebox. Jackie was no small amount relieved to be out of that main room as he did his best to saunter and not run to the third door on the left.
The door was heavy and a little stuck and Jackie put a shoulder into it to get it to budge, resulting in him tumbling into the room and only barely remaining on his feet. It turned out the door was steel on the other side and it slammed shut behind him as if pushed by an enormous invisible hand. The walls were lined in some weird green felt, like a darker pool table, and it occurred to Jackie immediately that the room was soundproofed. This did not inspire particularly good feelings.
There were three waist-high glass cases, housing strange shining gems which rested on tiered shelves lined with the same material the room was padded with. It was some sort of jewelry store. Behind the counters were shelves that displayed ornate looking antique urns. They looked to be the kind that one would find the ashen remains of the dearly departed. This also did not inspire particularly good feelings.
Then there was a voice whistling “Sweet Georgia Brown” and the source of it came right after, a man, or something like one, in a blue pinstripe suit and bowler hat, swinging a pocket watch on a tarnished silver chain.
“Oh! Well hello there!”
The man was not a man at all. He looked like a big dark green (the same color as the wall and case padding in fact) chameleon in the form of a man.
“Ummm… hello?” Jakie replied.
“Flabbergasted, eh?” said the humanoid lizard. “First time seeing somebody like me, huh?”
Jackie gulped and nodded.
“Hey, don’t worry though, I won’t eat you or anything.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Whatta ya mean?”
“This is a soundproof room in a very sketchy place.”
“Do you think I’m going to kill you?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Oh, come on, man! You think because I’m a big lizard that I’m some kind of monster? That’s speciesist, honestly. That’s what that is.”
Jackie didn’t know how to react. But his body did. He laughed. He didn't want to, but there it was.
“See,” said the lizard-man, chuckling along. “There’s the reaction I like. Anyway, what can I do you for?”
“What are you?”
“Name’s Linus.”
“Okay, but—”
“And you are? Manners, sir. They maketh the man it’s said. Though I’m not exactly one of those per se. Still.”
“Farrell, P.I. I’m looking for—”
“For The Collector, yes.”
“How’d you–”
“I’m a little bit psychic, it’s not a big deal. Or if you’re my wife it’s an act that I do to spook people. But I tell you it’s the real deal, man to man. Well, so to speak.”
“How much can you, umm, hear?”
“Impressions mostly, sometimes a few words. It’s not like a beam from your head to mine.”
“That’s good.”
“You’re telling me.”
Jackie cautiously approached the counter behind which Linus stood.
“Come now, Mr. Farrell. You’re safe here. The soundproofing is just because I can’t stand the racket out there. They call that music! Shameful. And as for my business’s location, well, looking like a fellow like me does and trading in the wares I do, this is prime real estate, yessir.”
Jackie was speechless. He did have an unassailable feeling that this lizard-man was being straight with him and he didn’t feel logically threatened but his pulse and his stomach were reacting on their own. He took a few deep breaths and willed himself to calm down.
“Okay, Jackie, can I call you Jackie? Oh sorry, yes, I read that on you. Please, relax. Tell Uncle Linus what you’re looking for.”
He steepled his fingers as he spoke and there were rings on three of his fingers, gaudy, huge red gems set in polished gold.
“Well, I don’t know how to say this…”
“Go on, I can’t read it off you, too much fuzziness.”
“That’s because it’s weird as hell.”
“Few things are quite that weird, but I understand.”
“I’m looking for... a memory?”
“Ahhhhh,” Linus sighed out. “From one Mr. Albert Wellington no doubt?”
“Yes…”
“A very fine specimen. Just recently acquired it myself. Though it’s one of a larger series.”
“What does that even mean?”
“The Collector, as you might have inferred, deals in collections.”
Linus guffawed at himself, as if it were a terribly funny joke. In his defense, Jackie had not indeed put two and two together on that front.
“Sorry,” Linus said. “I shouldn’t poke fun. I’m sure this is all rather disorienting. Let me try to elucidate a few things for you. You’ve no doubt gathered we deal in, shall we say, gray market items here. There is nothing strictly illegal about it, mind you. Your laws wouldn't comprehend what I do for a living, and ours are, well, mercurial.”
“I don’t follow and really have no idea what’s going on since this morning.”
“You’ve stepped into another world, Jackie, my boy. You’ll settle in. I can feel you’re a strong one. Anyhow, The Collector in particular has a fondness for memories. The contents of the mind, if you will. He also is possessed of a particular power, call it magic if you must, by which he can store these memories in various vessels. Behind me you will see some of them for sale. This one,” he pulled a blue and white Chinese looking urn from the shelf, “I purchased from him recently. Sourced from the formidable mind of Mr. Wellington. I’m assured it is of the highest quality. And I don’t doubt it, seeing as you must have observed that I do receive much fine inventory from Monsieur Collector.”
“What… what do you do with it?”
“Come now, Jackie, you’re smarter than that. How does one normally enjoy the contents of something in a container?”
“Open it…”
“You must do alright at this detective business,” Linus said, attempting precisely not at all to conceal his mockery.
“How much for it?”
“Wait a minute now. I’ve not said this lovely piece is even for sale.”
“Name the price.”
“You’re a man of means, then? The type to not look at prices on the menu? ‘Give me the two pound lobster and your finest bottle!’”
Linus cackled again. Only for a breath’s span, though, when he saw Jackie did not find it humorous.
“Humans. Ugh. Sad, humorless humans. Have it your way. Two thousand.”
“You’ll take a check?”
“What is this? 1957?”
“Yes or no.”
“How do I know it will clear?”
“My bankroll is Mr. Wellington himself.”
Linus burst into a greedy, wide grin.
“Why didn’t you say so?!”
“Can’t you read my mind?”
“Bits and pieces. But this is a fortuitous development. Four thousand.”
Jackie darted to the counter and grabbed a handful of each lapel on Linus’s jacket.
“Listen, you slimy son of a bi—”
“Hey! You can’t be calling me slimy, that’s a slur. I don’t have to sell you anything.”
Jackie exhaled forcefully through his nose, gritted his teeth, and let the lying lizard go.
“Sorry, Linus.”
“No you’re not.”
“No. I’m not. But are we doing business or worrying about our feelings?”
“You’re a mean one, Mr. Farrell.”
“Don’t push me. You’ll find out.”
“Four thousand.”
“So you’ve said. Who do I make it out to?”
“Linus Lizzard. Two Zs.”
Jackie looked up, mouth agape.
“You’re not serious.”
“I like to have a little fun, Jackie. I can be myself here, but out in your world people like me have a kind of glamor magic to make us look like you. My chosen name is a nod to my true self when I have to hide among you folk.”
“Well, good for you. Here’s your check.”
Jackie scribbled out the name and the dollar amount, tore it and shoved it in Linus’s face.
“A pleasure, of sorts, doing business with you,” Mr. Lizzard said and handed Jackie the blue and white urn.
As Jackie took hold of it, Linus quickly removed the lid and a blue twinkling vapor escaped and rapidly filled Jackie’s nostrils.
“Enjoy your purchase!” was the last thing Jackie heard before blacking out.
…Jackie is looking in a bathroom mirror. But he isn’t him. That much is plain. A handsome young man is looking back at him, an oddly familiar one. His tux is pristine, his hair slicked back, his smile confident. Jackie feels a nervous excitation growing in his belly. Well, in the man’s belly. Whoever he is now.
Jackie leaves the bathroom, but it’s as if he didn’t decide to. He just went. He's watching a kind of movie from inside another body. Of course! The memory. This is Wellington’s memory.
Jackie enters a grand foyer, a cocktail party. Everyone is beautiful. And rich. A man plays piano. People chatter.
“Alby! Alby!”
Jackie turns, all his motions involuntary, to see a stunning blonde in a shimmering blue dress nearly running his way. He hears himself speak.
“Rebecca, it’s so good to see you.”
“Oh, stop.” She touches his arm softly. “I bet you forgot I’d even be here tonight.”
“How could I forget anything about you?”
She blushes.
“Join me on the terrace?” Jackie says. Albert Wellington says, that is.
“I’d love to.”
Rebecca takes his hand and they stroll into a moonlit night.
“You look very beautiful.”
“I didn’t think you even noticed me.”
“I always do.”
“I don’t know what to say, Albert.”
“Nothing is just fine.”
They are suddenly locked in a kiss. The feelings coursing through Jackie’s body are overwhelming. Electric, passionate. But at bottom there is the unmistakably quality of love, a desire for life lived together with this woman.
Jackie pulls away and sees the lunar glow reflected in gorgeous green eyes. Eyes that speak the same love he felt in the kiss…
Jackie let out a roaring gasp as the terrace flickered out of view and he found himself once again in the padded green room.
Linus stood over him laughing maniacally.
“Good shit, eh?! First time is always a doozy.”
“What the hell was that?” Jackie cried, arms flailing as he scrambled to his feet.
“Grade-A cherished memory is what that was. How’d you like it?”
“Not at all.”
“Oh, come on. That can’t be true.”
“None of your business, regardless.”
“Fair enough.”
“Where are the rest?”
“Of the Wellington inventory? Oh, I can’t say. With The Collector himself, I suppose. It looks to me from your reaction that was a primo hit.”
“How do I find him?”
“My sister-in-law might know.”
“What?”
“Unfortunately, she married in and took up the Lizzard family business. She’s not like me, though, more of a serpentine creature. I won’t bore you with the vast ethnic breakdown of our world.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“She, her name’s Lucinda, runs a similar shop on 19th. Calls it ‘Shiny Time’. What a stupid name, isn’t it? Like her customers are children.”
“Whatever, Linus.”
“No call to be rude, Jackie.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Okay, but one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“She hates humans, unlike myself. And she is always running a glamor. You will want her, Jackie. Apparently she’s damn fine looking to you people. I don’t get it. The human redheaded vixen thing disgusts me. But it’s a trick. She will kill you if you don’t kill her first, just for poking around. Watch for the tongue. Poison. Rapid, no cure. Absorbs through the skin. My advice? Go in guns blazing. You might not want to, your eyes and feelings will betray you, but trust me.”
“You wouldn't be using me for a little competition elimination, would you?”
Linus smirked.
“I couldn’t rightly say, Jackie. But remember, it’s kill or be killed with Lucinda. Literally. Pleasure meeting you.”
“Makes one of us. Sayonara, Linus.”
Jackie was off then, shoving through a brawl that had reached a frenzied peak in the bar outside, onto the street awash with rain, heading for a violent demon disguised as a beautiful woman. And just damn confused about everything these days.
***
Jackie pondered things as he fought through the traffic on the way to Gold Star Pawn on 39th. That thing, the one that went by the name Lucinda, had given him the address, known just where The Collector would be as Linus said she, it, would. It had also lunged right for him on sight, as Linus said it would. He’d managed to drag it over the counter and end things quick. Something about it all still didn’t sit right with him, but he figured the thing was a monster plain and simple, regardless of how it was able to appear and play on his sense of compassion (and other senses). Linus seemed to imply he himself was a different sort of creature, but who knew? Nothing made much sense anymore.
Jackie hadn’t had to shoot anyone since he was deployed, more than a decade ago. He thanked God the thing had shown its true face before he put it down. Magic or no, he didn’t think he’d deal well with having shot what looked like an innocent woman. He didn’t suspect there would be any police issue with the shooting either. If whatever strange underworld forces left the body there (unlikely), it would be such a shock to the detectives he doubted the investigation would get off the ground. People have a way of ignoring what they can’t believe, be it true or not.
He nearly missed the shop, unassuming as it was, and pulled hard right to slide into the parking space in front, jumping the curb a little and swearing as he backed up off it. The tire came down with a thump and he cursed again. Last thing he needed was car repairs, cushy as the current job was.
Back into the night, raining still. There was that hollow little electronic ding as he opened the vertically barred front door. It was drab inside, all washed out grays and sickly greens under the somehow harsh yet dim fluorescents. A sallow looking guy in a Pantera shirt manned the counter, absorbed in some less than savory periodical. Surely this wasn’t the guy? But again, who knew anymore?
“I’m looking for The Collector.”
The Pantera fan looked up for just long enough to jerk a thumb to the door behind him before returning to his imaginary girlfriends.
Jackie took a few tentative steps and simply addressed the elephant in the room.
“I can just go back there?”
Pantera man grunted in the affirmative.
Okay. Things just get more bizarre, Jackie thought.
Inside the doorway was a room filled to the ceiling on every wall with jars, four or five layers in places. It smelled of some sort of incense, clove perhaps. In the middle of the room stood an imposing man, six feet tall, silver hair, in an incredibly expensive looking three-piece navy-blue suit. He was handsome but dangerous looking. He struck Jackie as just the type of man you’d find at the top of a crime ring. He could be none other than The Collector and he confirmed as much by his greeting.
“Hello, Mr. Farrell.”
“Hi, there. Do I call you ‘The Collector’? Seems awfully formal. And not a little weird.”
Jackie's attempt at condescending humor escaped the man. Or was ignored.
“Linus told me you’d be stopping by.”
“He knew where to find you? Why wouldn't he—”
The man waved a hand and broke in.
“That slimy bastard is always getting some dupe to do his dirty work. I suppose you’ll have to figure out how to cope with being an unwitting hitman. Should you care about such things.”
“I’m not sure I do,” Jackie lied.
“Just as well. Lucinda was a real bitch anyway. You did everyone a favor.”
Jackie's empty stomach tried to push up his nonexistent dinner at the suggestion. He choked the acid back and went on.
“I’m here to get back Mr. Wellington’s memories.”
“Ah ah ah. I won those fair and square, John.”
“It’s Jackie.”
The man only sighed in apathy at the request, shrugging his shoulders.
“I’ll buy them.”
“I don’t care about money, John.”
“Wellington will pay whatever.”
The man’s eyes narrowed.
“Are you stupid? Deaf?”
“Name the price.”
“This is becoming quickly tedious.”
Jackie drew the .38, fast.
“Have it your way, Mr. C. Give me the memories. The Containers.”
“And how will you know which of these fine pieces house the things you seek, should you decide to shoot me?”
The asshole had a point, Jackie had to admit.
The leg then. That usually got people talking. He steeled himself for the noise and fired a round at The Collector’s right kneecap.
Through which the bullet passed as if through empty air, shattering an urn behind the silver haired man.
The same blueish, sparkling vapor Jackie had seen in Linus’s shop rose from the broken vessel.
Jackie heard a cackling, wicked laughter before everything went black.
…Jackie is running. Sirens blare. He’s holding a duffle bag. And a machine pistol. There are two other men in masks running alongside him.
“Get to the car!” one yells.
Pain explodes in the back of his head as the lights go out…
Jackie gasped again as he returned to the Container room. The Collector was still laughing but winding down.
“Not one of my finer acquisitions. A bank robbery gone wrong. Still a fun little trip for the adrenaline junky.”
Jackie tried to catch his breath.
“What is all this?” he managed.
“You know the answer, of course. Memories. The finest. Well, mostly the finest. As in all things, there are matters of taste. The one you just sampled is a little vulgar for my liking.”
Jackie fired another shot, making sure there were no Containers in the bullet path. Right through the man again.
“Are you some sort of ghost?”
“That’s a bit derogatory but I suppose from your vantage, yes. I’d prefer ‘incorporeal’.”
Pantera burst in behind Jackie. The latter turned to get a bead on the intruder but had the gun batted from his hand by the metal pipe Pantera was swinging.
“Enough!” shouted The Collector. “I detest violence. And it took you long enough.”
Pantera glanced at the ground with dejection and childish shame.
“Sorry, boss.”
The Collector straightened his suit. Or the image of it. Whatever it was.
“That’s okay, Riley. Let’s all forgive and forget, huh? Please show Mr. Farrell the way out.”
“I’m not leaving without the memories,” Jackie said.
“You most certainly are.”
“What do you even want them for?”
“Amusement, primarily.”
“So you get high on them or something?”
“Oh, my, no. I’ve little interest in your petty human experiences. What I love is suffering. To see old Wellington and hundreds like him lose their sense of self. To take what defines them and to hoard it for myself. Cruel to your understanding, perhaps. But some beings are above such petty considerations as morality. I’m after pleasure, John. The highest kind.”
“You’re a monster.”
“Yes. And you are a frail creature that exists only in its own imagination. I can take what makes you what you are on a whim. That is power, John. And it is… delicious.”
“Please.”
“You’ll grovel for Wellington? That old wraith. It’s unbecoming. Disgusting even.”
“Just tell me which Containers are his.”
“That I can do. Knowing you’ll never get them back. That sounds like a delightful sort of diversion. I do so love spoiled aspirations.”
The collector spread a hand to several vessels to his left.
“These here, in front. Seven of them. But there are many memories inside each. An inventory my size requires efficiency and a bit of metaphysical geometry. Now, kindly get the fuck out of here. Riley!”
Four shots left in the revolver. It was a dice roll. A wild gamble. He’d have to take it. Jackie shattered two of the seven Containers with one shot. Two with another. The Collector screamed for him to stop. It all became a blur. The vapors were filling the room. Jackie felt himself losing consciousness. He fought to stay awake. He darted for the remaining three Containers. Shattered two more with a shot as he ran. Kicked the last one into little shards.
“Get him! Riley, Stop him!”
Beyond woozy, Jackie shot a round at the heavy-metal henchman. Miss. He squeezed the final shot into Riley’s stomach as he ran for the door.
Gray and sick green, fluorescents. All of it fading. He ran. Into the night. To the car. Ignition. Engine rumbling. Screeching tires. Hard right around the corner. Lamppost and then darkness.
…Jackie can feel himself smiling. Beaming so hard his face hurts. Rebecca is there. Her smile is beautiful. They are so happy. They are holding hands and running. People are cheering. Rice is falling from the sky. He lifts her and keeps going, her pristine white dress flowing in the breeze…
…“She’s beautiful, Alby.”
And so she is.
“Laura. Let’s call her Laura,” Rebecca says.
Jackie puts a finger inside the little hand. It’s perfect. So fragile and yet the promise of infinite life and strength. She cries, the perfect little angel. Laura…
…“I want a pony,” Laura says.
“Happy 7th Birthday” says the sign behind her pretty pouting face. Jackie knows she wanted a pony. But gifts need to be practical, he’d always said. She wouldn't be able to maintain a pony anyway. He hears himself apologizing but Laura can’t stay mad at him.
“It’s okay, daddy. I know it’s a lot of work.”...
… “Alby, Oh God, Alby… She’s gone…”
Rebecca is sobbing on the other end of the line. A car wreck. She isn’t coming home. Little Laura…
…Jackie is holding a frail hand. The mother’s now and not the daughter’s. The hand is frail from sickness and not from the absence of growth. Hospital machines beep.
Rebecca opens her eyes. Smiles. Squeezes as hard as she can. It’s not much but there’s life in it.
She tells Jackie she loves him…
Jackie came to with an airbag in his face. The car was smoking. He needed to get out and fast. It probably wouldn't blow but he wasn’t going to take a chance on that. Dawn was breaking, so he’d been out for an hour at least. No sign of Riley or The Collector. The gut shot must have put the former out of commission, who knows if permanently. And Jackie couldn’t fathom by what strange laws of physics or otherwise the ghost man moved but he hadn’t sought Jackie yet.
Jackie bolted from the scene. He’d deal with the car later. Or not at all. He had to get to Wellington.
***
Broken and tired, Jackie climbed the steps to the lion-knockered door and rapped it three times.
Jeeves answered, no hint of concern for Jackie’s state in his expression, and led the battered P.I. to his master.
“Mr. Farrell, sir,” the butler said.
It took a few breaths for Wellington to understand, at which point he beckoned Jackie to sit and dismissed his faithful servant.
“Did you recover what was stolen?” the old man asked.
Jackie hesitated. Tried to start explaining.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“How’s that?”
“I couldn’t get them, sir. Not intact.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were kept in these jars, these people called them ‘Containers’. Not people even. Monsters. Demons. I don’t know. You got involved in something hellish.”
“I suspected as much. The sadness is deep, Jackie. But know I truly value that you tried.”
“There’s something else.”
Jackie explained all that happened. How the memories were enjoyed by those that bought them. About the lizard man, the redheaded demon, and the shootout with the ghost. About how the containers that held Mr. Wellington’s memories were destroyed.
“My memories… you have them now?”
“Yes. I think so. It’s as if I lived them.”
Wellington clutched at the pastel pink blanket Rebecca had knitted him.
“Tell me about them. About my girls.”
Jackie obliged and he watched in wonder as Wellington began to slowly remember. He remembered each event as Jackie recounted it. They spoke until after noon. The sun flooded through the open window just as the memories flooded back into Albert Wellington and the tears flooded from his eyes. He reached out an age-spotted hand to grasp Jackie’s own.
“Thank you. I don’t know how it happened, but thank you.”
And then Jackie understood.
Memories could not be housed in Containers made of ceramic or brass, for they lived in Containers of flesh. Memory exists in the mind but also in the body, and through the recounting Jackie had restored to Wellington’s mind what his body had never released. And this was a thing the ghost called The Collector could never understand. Something truly human and truly beautiful.
As he left the mansion Jackie wondered at the mystery of it all. Of what contained what. That the body and mind that housed the memories were in turn housed in the world. And that the whole world was the only Container big enough to hold the love that lived in Albert Wellington’s heart.
Good piece!
Serialize. Serialize. Serialize. I want to read more about Jackie's cases! Excellent story, my friend!