Crime Spells

Call of the Second Wolf by Steven Mohan, Jr.

Last night about two in morning, after I left Charlene the blonde hooker and was home sleeping, someone crept into burned-out south side warehouse and iced five members of Chinese mob in middle of business transaction.

I do not mean killed, I mean iced, changed into crystalline statues of frozen water.

Good news is that it was cold last night, clear and twenty-two at Midway, so Chinese thugs did not have chance to melt before Chicago PD showed up in morning and changed them back. Otherwise the bloodbath would’ve already begun.

Bad news is anonymous someone stole 47 kilos of Afghani H from the Chinese and, of course, they are blaming us.

Worse news is Georgi Dorbayeva wants me to fix it.

I stopped at run-down storefront, dark green paint peeling off the weathered wood in long curls like shavings coming off pencil sharpener. There were dead chickens in window, hanging upside down. Dead chickens and dead rats and dead snakes and God knows what else, but all of it ski

“Traditional Chinese Remedies,” said sign over window, and that made me laugh. Sure, nothing’s more traditional than heroin.

I shouldered my way through door. Store inside was tiny, six feet front to back and same side to side.

A wizened old man sat behind a polished mahogany counter watching me kick snow off fine leather boots I’d conjured up night before.

Behind him were shelves of everything practitioner of Chinese magic might need. I saw scorpions crawling over each other in glass jar, individually wrapped tiger penises, stoppered vials of snake venom, ground sea-horse, duck tongues, million other things. Shelves went up forever, so high I couldn’t see ceiling.

“Valeri Kozlov?” said the man behind the counter. He was short, not much over five feet, and he really did look wise. I might’ve mistaken him for Confucius if he hadn’t been dressed in jeans and a black Rush tee-shirt.

“Da,” I said.

“I have your item, just as you asked.” He showed me a square box, ten inches on a side, and pulled off the top.

Inside was a blackened monkey’s hand, desiccated and curled into a claw.

I blinked. I’d never spoken with this man before, so why the “gift”? Was this some obscure message from Zhang Shaoming?

I smiled graciously. “Thank you. May we discuss after meeting?”

He bowed his head and raised a hinged section of the countertop. I stepped through and into sudden darkness. Just like that, I was somewhere else.

I pulled out my cell and glanced at backlit screen: “NO SERVICE.” My network promises coverage in all of United States and three parallel dimensions, so wherever I was, it wasn’t store.

I turned in a slow circle, seeing nothing but darkness. I turned again and this time saw a white light shining down on circular table fashioned from polished teak.

Two men sat at table. One I recognized as Zhang Shaoming, Chicago overlord of the Black Dragons.

Zhang was dressed like he just stepped out of GQ: periwinkle polo shirt and charcoal slacks. I’m not sure how old he was (it was rumored he’d been friends with one of the Ming emperors), but he looked late thirties, dark hair smoothed back, eyes black, handsome face relaxed and calm.

Next to him was a wisp of a man, frail and cadaverous. His clothes hung off him, his bony arms swimming in the sleeves of his white Oxford shirt. He wore dark glasses.

He looked like some species of undead. If Zhang thought he could u

Missing was any sign of muscle. That scared the living hell out of me. No one had bothered to take the Glock snuggled up against the small of my back, and there was no muscle. That meant Zhang wasn’t worried about me at all.

I felt a little flutter of fear deep in my gut.

We were meeting under an assumption of neutrality, and my safety was guaranteed during meeting. That guarantee was built upon Black Dragon and Krasny Mafiya desire to avoid war.

But if Zhang had already decided that we had hit him, my life was forfeit.

I bowed politely. “It is always an honor, Zhang Shaoming.”

“Valeri Kozlov of the Red Mafia,” said Zhang in a pleasant, conversational tone. “Or should I say Krasny Mafiya?”

I shrugged.

“Someone has stolen my property, Valeri Kozlov.”

I swallowed in a dry mouth. Right to business? No intricate courtesy accompanied by a cup of jade oo-long? This was not the Zhang Shaoming I knew.

He had to be angry.

“We also learned this,” I said, “through our police sources.”

“And you are here to tell me it wasn’t you.” I actually heard the tightness in Zhang’s voice. Very angry.

I started to sweat. “I am here to tell you truth,” I said. “Krasny Mafiya had no part in this.”

“Then who do you think it was?”

I shrugged. “Maybe Yakuza. Or Vietnamese. Or Italians.”

He snorted. “The Italians?”

“I do not know who it was. I do know it was not us.”

And that was the truth. Georgi hadn’t brought in any out-of-town talent, and the only Krasny Mafiya muscle in Chicago who could take down five Chinese magicians without being caught was him and me. Georgi wouldn’t take risk if there was someone else he could use, and my evening had been spent with Charlene the blonde hooker.

Zhang studied my face for a long moment. “Please sit with us, Valeri.”

I pulled out chair and sat down. The zombie still hadn’t moved.

Zhang leaned across the table. “Why do you think Georgi Dorbayeva sent you to this meeting?”

“After what happened, you must be, ah, angry. And so a meeting like this carries with it certain… risks.”

Zhang nodded. “So Dorbayeva would not come himself. Instead he sent someone who could be trusted to speak for him but who could also be sacrificed.”

I said nothing.

“Dorbayeva has been head of the Russian mob in Chicago for eleven years,” said Zhang. “How do you think he has lasted so long?”

“He is a great and terrible magician,” I said. “And he is surrounded by army of loyal supporters who would avenge his death.”

“Like you,” said Zhang.

“Like me,” I said.

“I can’t help but wonder if your loyalty has been repaid.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are few in the Red Mafia who could steal our product despite our careful attention. If Dorbayeva took the heroin and sent you to this meeting…” His voice trailed off suggestively.

A twinge of doubt twisted my stomach. Still, I leaned forward and flashed him a wintry smile. “You will not turn me against my brother.”

Zhang sat back and smiled i

I grunted.

“I have always admired you, Valeri. Powerful like Dorbayeva, but subtle, too. Smart.” His eyebrows went up. “And courteous. So few Russians appreciate the value of courtesy. I have found our discussions to be most productive.”

The zombie took off his dark glasses, revealing blank eyes like hardboiled eggs.

“I would like to keep it that way,” murmured Zhang.

That’s when I felt first feathery touch in my mind.

The zombie wasn’t a zombie, he was sifter.

Right then I went for the Glock, but nothing happened. I couldn’t move. Not even a twitch of my finger.

Zhang smiled. “The first thing Mr. Xi took from you was muscle control.”

I tried to shout. Nothing.

“Don’t worry,” said Zhang in an easy voice. “You won’t need to talk for this next part. Mr. Xi will search your mind for the appropriate information and bring it to the surface where I can read it. Now.” He leaned forward. “Where were you last night, Valeri?”