9 Tales From Elsewhere 12 Read online

  Before him lay a vast space the size of a hangar for a Boeing 747. Dominating the space sat a brilliant golden dog. This creation was a true colossus, with eyes as big as tractor tires. But this beast, instead of growling or barking, began to move its large tail back and forth, knocking aside a number of money chests.

  "You look more like a golden retriever than a Rottweiler," he told the dog. Then wrapping the Wicca shawl around his shoulders, he shouted the command, "Down!"

  At once the colossal canine dropped to the floor and looked at him expectantly, mouth open, its tongue hanging out like a gilded escalator.

  "Good boy," Napoleon said, marching over to it. The dog obviously expected a pat, so when the machine lowered its head, the soldier reached up and stroked its snout. "Such a good dog."

  Leaving the dog, the soldier examined the currency that lay scattered about after the wagging tsunami. "Good old U.S. greenbacks." Emptying his pockets of euros, he refilled them with the U.S. currency.

  He was just thinking of using the shawl to bundle more greenbacks on the way out when he spied a table and chair. On the tabletop were three objects: a burning candle, a sprig of some plant, and a cell phone.

  The cell phone appeared to be brand new and Napoleon was surprised that the Wiccan would have anything state of the art. He slipped it into his shirt pocket, after removing a roll of bills and stuffing them into his shirt.

  "Give me the phone," the Wiccan woman demanded, her hand outstretched.

  Napoleon stepped down from the ladder's last rung and avoided the candle flames as he moved toward the door.

  "And I'll have my shawl back as well."

  Gone was the crone's confident, manipulating tone; a stern intensity had replaced it.

  Napoleon examined her objectively. The Wiccan was as unlikable as any person, man or woman, that he had ever met, and he had known some brutes and scoundrels. He had risked his life for the money wrapped in the shawl, and for the cell phone, for that matter.

  "I'll need the wrap for a while, and as for the cell phone, I could use that, too. You can pick up another easily enough," he told her.

  "Give me that phone!" she shrieked, stiffly struggling to stand.

  "Forget it," he said, opening the door.

  As the door swung inward, a flung candle rebounded off the doorjamb spraying him with hot wax. Its descending ricochet brought the candle in contact with the money bundle Napoleon carried, long enough to catch the cloth on fire.

  Cursing, Napoleon dropped the bundle and started stamping out the flames. Another lit candle hit him in the back of the head.

  "Christ!" he yelled, slapping a hand to his neck to wipe the molten wax that burned him. "Now you're definitely not getting that phone!"

  Napoleon scooped up the bundle, now slightly scorched, and moved quickly to the landing and started down the stairs. Halfway down, an unearthly scream stopped him. He turned to look back and saw smoke belching out of the candlelit room. And out of the smoke, the crone appeared. On seeing him below her, she pointed at him with arm, hand, and finger. Her vector aimed directly at his chest and he jumped as if he'd been hit by the burning jolt of a laser.

  "I curse you for your thievery! This will be your undoing!" As she hurled her malediction upon him, fire caught the edge of her robe. Frantically she swatted, whirled, and stamped, but the flames raced up the fabric to the Wiccan's hair. Screaming in pain, she ran forward to escape the conflagration from which there was no escape.

  Napoleon watched as the human torch broke through the railing and sailed out into the space below. For a frozen moment captured and filed permanently in the archive of his mind, he saw her aflame and thrashing as she fell. And then she hit the concrete floor, her strange life snuffed out while her carcass still burned.

  By the time Napoleon reached the bottom of the stairs, the upper storey was ablaze. He clutched his loot bag to his chest and moved in a crouch, coughing, until he found his way out of the burning building.

  The raindrops hit his face as he straightened up and breathed in the night air. The storm seemed to have been awaiting his escape for now the heavens opened and emptied their reservoirs. Napoleon looked back and watched as the cloudburst quenched the flames.

  He thought of the dead Wiccan woman and the three huge dogs and then he thought of the money.

  Drenched to the bone, Napoleon Bonappetit walked away uncaring, back to his Harley.

  Atlantic City provided him with the "good life" Napoleon thought he wanted--a lavish suite in the best hotel, fine food and drink, beautiful women, and money to burn. A fortune will multiply itself in the hands of the wise, or flow through the fingers like water when held by a fool. And flow it did when Napoleon started playing roulette. Encouraged by initial wins, he became a frequent player and began betting larger sums. He moved on to high-stakes poker and that proved to be his undoing. Betting the dregs of his fortune plus a promissory note for more, he lost it all on a deal of the cards.

  Napoleon left the table that night with a tight smile and his usual air of confidence, which disappeared as the elevator doors closed and he ascended to his floor. Once in his suite, he quickly gathered his essentials, leaving suits and accessories, as he needed to travel light and fast. Giving a last glance around the bedroom, he noticed the Wiccan's cell phone, picked it up, and placed it in his pocket.

  Unable to pay his enormous hotel bill, Napoleon took the elevator to the parking level. He smiled when he saw the silver Ferrari California T for which he had paid cash a few weeks previously, but his joy faded when two beef-fed bruisers stepped out from behind a pillar.

  "You wouldn't be leaving town would you, General?" said one of the heavyweights. A shaved head and once-broken nose distinguished him from his partner who obviously emulated John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. Both wore suits and ties.

  "I think you've met your Waterloo, Napoleon," Travolta added.

  Just going for a drive, my friends. And it was Emperor, not General, by the way," Napoleon replied.

  "Mr. Lione wants to see you…Emperor. A little matter of a sum of money. Get in the car." Shaved Head motioned toward a black limousine.

  Seeing the futility of arguing or resisting, Napoleon followed orders.

  Expecting an abandoned warehouse or a patch of desert, Napoleon was surprised at the exclusive neighborhood they drove through. The limo turned into a long driveway that curved toward the lights of a grand mansion. They stopped before the front stairs leading to the entrance.

  "Get out," said the ponytailed Travolta.

  Napoleon obeyed and the two thugs escorted him into the mansion. The splendor of the interior design was as he expected--spacious and lofty--though the décor he found understated and pleasing. His chaperones took him to a sunken living room too large to be cozy, yet by the subtle arrangement of comfortable seating around a fireplace of imported stone, it managed to be welcoming.

  "Hello."

  Napoleon turned to behold a stylishly dressed young woman with Mediterranean tones and features.

  "Hello," he replied, without his usual swagger.

  "I am Valeria Lione. Are you here to see my father?"

  "Yes," he replied. "I was…summoned."

  Valeria smiled. "Ron and Terry can be quite persuasive." Looking at the two employees, she said, "You can tell my father that Mr…"

  "Napoleon," he told her.

  "That Mr. Napoleon is here."

  Ron and Terry hesitated, but a look from Valeria was enough to send them and they left the room.

  "Please sit down, Mr. Napoleon," she said as she walked to the liquor cabinet. "May I offer you a drink?"

  "Scotch," he replied, moving toward the hearth. "Please. And Napoleon is my first name."

  Valeria bent to retrieve the spirits from the cabinet.

  Napoleon admired her slim form.

  "Ice?"

  "No, thank you."

  Napoleon took a seat upon a sofa near the hearth, where he could watch for the return of the two thu
gs.

  "So how did your parents come to name you Napoleon?" Valeria said as she handed him a drink. She placed herself a respectful but friendly distance from him on the sofa.

  He smiled. "My parents actually christened me Olivier, after the actor. My surname is Bonappetit, so my buddies in the marines started calling me Napoleon. The guy conquered most of Europe, so it didn't bother me."

  Valeria returned his smile. "I like that," she said.

  They both sipped their drinks. Valeria gave him a serious look. "What does my father want to see you about?"

  For the first time, Napoleon noticed her blue-green eyes, the color of the Mediterranean coming in over beach sand--eyes full of life and excitement.

  "What?" she asked.

  "Nothing," he said, placing his glass on the coffee table. "Your father wants to see me about some money I owe him."

  "Oh…I see. That is a shame."

  "Only if Mr. Bonappetit doesn't pay me, my dear."

  Otelo Lioni, distinguished in evening jacket and open-necked shirt, stood at the entrance to the room. Black hair salted with grey gave his short-trimmed beard a regal look. His clothes were fine tailored, and fit his athletic form perfectly.

  "Father," Valeria said, "Mr. Bonappetit was just telling me how he met you."

  "Yes, a matter of cards, my dear. I trust my daughter has been a gracious host, Mr. Bonappetit?"

  "Very gracious, Mr. Lioni. She is an impressive woman." Napoleon noticed that while Valeria's expression did not change, her eyes sparkled.

  Lioni crossed the room to mix himself a drink.

  "Like your daughter," Napoleon said, "your home is very beautiful and elegant."

  "Thank you," he replied. "Valeria, our new friend flatters us both, but I should warn you, he has a good poker face yet he bluffs too often."

  "I see," Valeria said. "I appreciate the warning, Father." She aimed a slight smile at Napoleon.

  With drink in hand, Lioni moved to the fireplace, where he placed a polished Italian shoe upon the raised hearth and leaned on stone.

  "Getting down to business, Mr. Bonappetit."

  "Call me Napoleon. Mr. Bonappetit was my father."

  "Very well. How do you intend on paying your debt to me, Napoleon?" Lioni asked.

  "I have a new Ferrari I will sign over to you. Perhaps your daughter would enjoy driving it." Napoleon noticed Valeria's smile widen.

  "An almost new Ferrari. Unfortunately, the depreciation is steep once you drive it out of the dealership. My accountant has given me a rendering of your assets--by the way, there is no information as to how you came into your…late fortune--and after the used Ferrari, you would still need to pay me $50,000. I should mention I charge a high rate of interest, and I do not enjoy carrying debtors."

  Napoleon realized Otelo Lioni was speaking as a businessman in his daughter's company. His words held no threat, but it was clear it lay within the next layer of the onion.

  "I think it would be best," Napoleon said, beginning his bluff, "if I called a friend." As he spoke, his hand reached for his phone, recently acquired from a certain Wiccan.

  "Perhaps Napoleon could make his call in the den, Father?" Valeria suggested.

  "Certainly. Would you show him the way?" Lioni took another sip from his drink as Valeria led Napoleon from the room.

  In a low voice, Valeria said, "Don't underestimate my father--he's used to winning, and is not a gracious loser."

  "Somehow I gathered that," Napoleon said, entering the room Valeria directed him to.

  "I would hate for anything to happen to you," she said sliding into his personal space and bringing her face close to his.

  "So would I," he said just before the kiss. Its timing was as unexpected as its duration, which was short.

  "Don't be long," Valeria said pulling away and making her exit.

  Napoleon watched her leave, with the door closing behind her.

  "Jeezus," he said under his breath. Thrown off stride by Valeria's kiss, he raised the cell phone as if he had a rich friend he could call. The phone turned on, showing the downloaded apps. There was only one.

  "The Tinder Box," he read. Putting off how to solve his current problem, Napoleon touched the old-fashioned wooden box icon. The picture instantly grew in size, the box's lid slid open and its contents burst from it: firesteel, flint, and a fibrous material resembling moss or hemp. The word STRIKE appeared on the screen.

  Napoleon shook his head. I'll have to convince Lioni I've a friend payin' him off for me. It'll take a few days, I'll say, then give him and his boys the slip. And Valeria...

  STRIKE, the screen flashed.

  I'd like to get to know her better, but under the circumstances…

  STRIKE, the screen demanded and the phone began an insistent beeping.

  "Shit," Napoleon said and pressed the phone to shut it off. It kept beeping. Louder.

  "Alright!" he said, sliding the firesteel with his finger toward the flint. As the two images touched, a spark flew to the moss, which burst into flame. Out of the fire, words appeared: MAKE YOUR COMMAND.

  Yeah, right. Okay…"get me out of here."

  A new message appeared: WAIT.

  Napoleon laughed. No problem there, Tinder Box. Immediately, the screen blackened. Now it turns off.

  "Any success?" Otelo Lioni asked him, as he rejoined father and daughter in the parlor.

  "Yes, fortunately," Napoleon replied. "I called an old friend who is willing to lend me the 50,000. He said it would take him two days to liquidate certain investments."

  "Excellent." Lioni smiled and raised his glass to his lips. When he lowered it, he turned to his daughter. "Valeria, could you give our guest and me a few moments in private?"

  Valeria looked at her father and then at Napoleon. "Certainly, Father." She rose and exited the room.

  "Did you use our house phone or your cell?" Lioni asked.

  "It was long distance. I used my cell."

  "May I see it a moment?"

  "My cell?" The man who never hesitated, hesitated now.

  "Of course." Napoleon stepped closer and handed it to his host.

  Lioni turned it on and let his fingers explore. After a long minute, he tossed the cell phone onto the couch.

  Lioni's gray eyes had turned the color of volcanic ash on ice. "You lied to me, and that was a mistake. You have no contacts listed on this phone, and no record of any calls made."

  Napoleon chose not to suggest he'd erased all his calls and all his contacts. Lioni had called his bluff and that was it. He looked at his creditor and waited for the next move.

  "Ron! Terry! Come in here," Lioni called.

  The two thugs must have been waiting in the next room for they appeared on Napoleon’s next breath.

  "My poker friend thinks I'm still playing games. Take him downstairs for a little persuading."

  The one with the shaved head twisted Napoleon's arm behind his back. The ponytail mimicked the action from the other side. Napoleon let himself be led from the room.

  "And leave enough of him to work off his debt," Lioni said.

  The bare room they took him to was accessed through a door in the back of Lioni's extensive wine cellar.

  "Why don't you guys grab a bottle or two," Napoleon quipped on their way through, "and we can have a party."

  "Quite the joker, this guy," said Ponytail.

  "We'll see how long that lasts," said his partner.

  Napoleon waited until Ponytail let go of his arm so Shaved Head could get him through the door. Napoleon whirled, slamming his captor against the door jam. He then ducked, rolled his left arm from behind his back, and smashed his right into the man's face. Shaved Head recoiled from the blow and crashed into a wine rack, breaking several bottles. As Napoleon turned to take on the other man, a bottle broke against the side of his head. He dropped to his knees, fighting to retain consciousness amid rivulets of Riesling. Four hands hauled him into the bare room and dropped him onto a straight-backed chair. W
ithin a minute Napoleon's hands and feet were tied and connected.

  "Jeezus! Breaking the boss's wine," said Ponytail. "He won't be too pleased, Ron."

  "You should've thought of that before you broke a bottle over this piece of shit's head," Ron replied. "I'll take first crack at him."

  Napoleon gave his head a shake to clear it, but the pain made him nauseous.

  The Ponytail was lighting a smoke and the one called Ron stood before him. Napoleon got ready to dodge blows to his head.

  "Let the show begin," said Ron, drawing back his fist. But before he could land the first hit, the door burst inward with a bang and a shower of slivers and spears.

  Positioned with his back to the door, Napoleon hunkered forward on the chair while Ron and Terry raised their arms to protect themselves from the flying debris. As the dust cleared Napoleon saw them staring beyond him in astonishment. They started backing up in fear as the brass Rottweiler with eyes as big as sand dollars stepped passed Napoleon, growling and showing its teeth. Then it attacked. Springing upon Ponytail, it clamped its jaws upon the thug's tall frame and with a flick of its head threw him against the wall. Ron Shaved Head managed to reach the door but the beast whirled and charged off in pursuit. Napoleon heard bloodcurdling shrieks and the snap and clang of metal jaws. Then all was silent. Napoleon struggled to free himself but the bindings held him fast. The dog's snout on his fingers startled him, but Napoleon relaxed as the beast began to chew the ropes.

  "Nice doggie," he said, gathering his wits.

  The doglike creature cut through the cords like they were licorice and Napoleon stood, massaging his wrists.

  "Good dog," he said, tentatively touching the canine's brass head and feeling foolish. Then the shoe dropped--the "get me out of here" command he'd given to the tinder box! "Oh-my-everlovin-God," he said, as new possibilities percolated to the surface.

  Moving through the mansion proved easy, as Lioni, Valeria, and the servants had turned in for the night. Napoleon walked the dog--who now accepted the ex-marine as master--up the stairs to the main floor and on to the parlor.