Crime Spells Part 3

The Hex Is In: A Harry the Book Story.

by Mike Resnick.

So I am sitting there in the stands, and the Pittsburgh Pompadoodles are beating the Manhattan Misfits by a score of 63 to 10, which is not unexpected since the Misfits have not won a game since John Alden had a fling with Pocahontas, and I am silently cursing my luck, because the point spread is 46, and if the Misfits could have managed just one more touchdown, I would not have to pay off any bets to either side.

But it is the fourth quarter, and there are only twenty-two seconds left on the clock, and the Misfits are eighty-seven yards away from paydirt, and the Pompadoodles have been beating them like a drum all day. And then, suddenly, G.o.dzilla Monsoon finds a hole off left tackle, and he races through it, and two of the Pompadoodles' defensive backs run into each other, and d.a.m.ned if he hasn't pa.s.sed the midfield mark and is racing toward the end zone. Everyone is chasing him, but G.o.dzilla's got a head of steam up, and no one gets close to him. Now he's at the forty-yard line, now he's at the thirty, now the twenty-and then, just as I'm counting my profits, a piano falls out of the sky on top of him, and the ref whistles the play dead on the eight-yard line.

Benny Fifth Street turns to me, a puzzled expression on his face. "You ever seen it rain pianos before?" he asks.

"Not that I can remember," I admit.

"I wonder if it was a Steinway," says Gently Gently Dawkins, who is sitting on the other side of me.

"What difference does it make?" I ask.

"Them Steinways are always a little flat in the upper scales," he says.

"You want to see flat, take a look at G.o.dzilla Monsoon," offers Benny Fifth Street.

"You guys are getting off the point," I say.

"Was there one?" asks Gently Gently Dawkins.

"The subject was rain," answers Benny. "I suppose if it can rain cats and dogs, it can rain pianos every once in a while."

"The subject," I say, "is who wanted the Pompadoodles to beat the spread?"

"That should be easy enough," says Benny. "Who put some serious money on the Pompadoodles?"

"Everybody," says Gently Gently, chuckling in amus.e.m.e.nt. "The last time the Misfits won they were the New Amsterdam Misfits-and then they only won because the other team was attacked by Indians on the way to the game and never showed up."

I give what has occurred a little serious thought, and then I say, "You know, pianos hardly ever fall out of the sky on their own."

"Maybe it fell out of an airplane," says Gently Gently.

"Or maybe a roc was carrying it off to its nest," adds Benny.

"Rocks don't fly," protests Gently Gently. "They just lie there quietly, and sometimes they grow moss, which I figure is like a five o'clock shadow for inanimate objects."

"You guys are missing the point," I say. "Clearly the hex is in, and I paid my hex protection to Big-Hearted Milton. If the piano was going to fall on anyone, it should have fallen on the referee, who's been blowing calls all afternoon."

"Or the tuba player in the band," adds Benny. "He's always off key."

"So why didn't Milton stop it, or at least misdirect it?" I continue.

"Speaking of Milton, here," says Gently Gently, handing me five one-hundred-dollar bills.

"If I speak of Milton, will you lay another five C-NOTES on me?" asked Benny curiously.

"This is a bet," answers Gently Gently. "I forgot to give it to you."

"From Big-Hearted Milton?" I say, frowning.

"Right. He gave it to me at halftime."

"But Milton never bets," I say. "It's against the rules of the Mages Guild."

"I heard they tossed him out for nonpayment," says Benny.

"Which team did he bet on, as if I didn't know?" I ask.

"The Pompadoodles, of course," answers Gently Gently.

"Well, that explains why he didn't stop the piano," puts in Benny.

I get to my feet. "I'll see you guys later."

"Where are you going, Harry?" asks Benny.

"I got to pay off all the guys who bet on Pittsburgh, and then I have to have a talk with Milton."

"Where will you find him?"

"Same place as always," I reply.

So I do like I say, and pay Longshot Louie and Velma the Vamp and Hagridden Henry and all the others, and then I head over to Joey Chicago's Bar, where my office is the third booth on the left, and I toss my hat there and then go to men's room, where I find Big-Hearted Milton sitting on the tile floor as usual, surrounded by five candles and half-singing half-muttering some chant.

" Milton," I say, "we've got to talk."

"Why, Harry the Book-what a surprise," he says. "Wait'll I finish this spell." He goes back to chanting in a tongue so alien that it might very well be French. Finally he looks up. "Okay, I'm done. Did you bring my money?"

"That's what we have to talk about," I say.

"All right," he says, getting to his feet and snuffing out the candles with his shoe. "But I want you to know that I'm protected against spells, curses, betrayals, demonic visitations, and small nuclear devices."

"Are you protected against a punch in the nose?" I ask.

He frowns and looks worried. "No."

"Then let's talk."

"About my money?"

"About G.o.dzilla Monsoon getting flattened by a piano."

"He'll be all right," says Milton. "It fell on his head. It's not as if it hit him in the knee or anything he ever uses."

"Why did it hit him at all?" I ask. "And just when he was about to wipe out the spread?"

"It wasn't my fault," whimpers Milton.

"Come on, Milton," I say. "The only time in five years you make a bet, and nine million pounds of music falls down on the guy who's about to make you lose?"

"I didn't do it."

"Maybe you didn't drop it," I say. "But I pay for hex protection, and you didn't stop it."

"It's too complicated to explain," says Milton. "Just give me my winnings and we'll agree never to discuss it again."

"Come on, Milton," I say. "You can tell me what's going on. We've known each other for fifteen years now."

"We've been friends for fifteen years?" he says, surprised. "How time flies."

"I didn't say we were friends. I said we've known each other. Now, what the h.e.l.l is going on?"

He cups his hand to his ear. "They're calling you from the bar, Harry."

"The bar's empty, except for Joey Chicago, who was guzzling some Old Peculiar from the tap when I walked through."

He looks at his wrist. "Oh, my goodness, look at the time!" he exclaims. "I'm late for an appointment. I really must run."

" Milton, you're not wearing a watch," I point out.

"I p.a.w.ned it," he says. "But I remember where the hands should be."

" Milton," I say, "I just want you to know that this hurts me more than it hurts you."

And with that, I haul off and punch him in the nose.

He hits the ground with a thud!, pulls out a handkerchief to try to push the blood back into his nostrils, and climbs slowly to his feet.

"You were wrong, Harry," he says reproachfully. "It hurts me much more than it hurt you."

"An honest mistake," I say. "And now, unless you tell me what's going on, I am going to make honest mistakes all over your face."

"All right, all right," he says. "But let's leave my office and go to yours. I feel the need of a drink."

We emerge from the men's room and walk over to my booth, where Milton orders us each an Old Washensox.

"My treat," he says. "Joey, put 'em on my tab."

"I been meaning to talk to you about your tab," says Joey.

"Holler when it hits fifty," says Milton.

"I been hollering since it hit twenty, for all the good it's done me," answers Joey.

Joey brings us our beers, mutters the usual about firing Milton and hiring Morris the Mage to protect the place, and goes back to the bar.

"All right," says Milton, "here's the situation. I find myself a little short for money this year"-which is not a surprise; Milton has been short for money since Teddy Roosevelt charged up San Juan Hill -"and suddenly someone throws a beautiful gift in my lap."

"What was her name?" asks Joey, who was listening from behind the bar.

"Opportunity," says Milton.

"Not much of a name," says Joey, making a face. "I prefer Bubbles, or maybe Fifi."

"So tell me about this opportunity," I say, as Joey leans forward to get her measurements.

"Gerhardt the Goblin-you know, that little green critter who's always screaming 'Down in front!' at Tasteful Teddy's 5-Star Burlesque Emporium-anyway, Gerhardt approaches me one day last week and tells me that he's got a client who wants to put five hundred down on the Pompadoodles, but doesn't want to do it himself, and that if I knew anyone who would act as a middleman, he'd get twenty percent of the winnings."

"And you don't know who you're working for?"

"I'm working for me," says Milton with dignity. "I don't know whose money I'm betting, but that's a whole different matter."

"Where can I find Gerhardt?" I ask.

"Beside Tasteful Teddy's?" says Milton. "He loves betting on the lady mud wrestlers over at Club Elegante." He lowered his voice confidentially. "They're the only wrestling matches in the whole city that aren't fixed."

"You know," I say, "I've been there a couple of times-just for the coffee, mind you; I paid no attention to the wrestlers at all-but I don't remember any of the matches having a winner."

"They don't."

"Then what's to bet on?"

"Which one gets naked first. How long before they're so covered with mud you can't tell ' em apart. How many men say they just go there for the coffee. That kind of thing."

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" I ask.

"Not a thing."

"Okay, Milton," I say, getting up. "I'll see you soon."

"You're leaving?"

"Yes," I say.

"Where's my money?" he asks.

"Right here," I say, patting my vest pocket. "And it's my money."

"Aw, come on, Harry," he pleads. "Show a little charity."

"You insist?" I say.