Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle

Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle

Ben English

Copyright 2011 by Ben English

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Jack Be Nimble

By Ben English

Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle

By Ben English

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead, undead, or wandering the streets of San Francisco, would be pretty amazing, now, wouldn’t it?

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Copyright © 2011 by Ben English

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

Published in the United States of America.

Cover art modified, original photo by Brian Jeffery Beggerly. View west over the city of Paris from the Galerie des Chimères of Notre-Dame de Paris. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 generic license.

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This one’s for Gilen.

Trade Secrets

Art lies in its concealment.

–Cicero

She struggled through
mountains of falling rain, until her own bright reflection resolved itself on the skin of the train before her.

It was barely a short dash then from the depot to the open train door, and Mercedes ran as quickly as her skirt allowed, thrusting her briefcase ahead of her. Maybe it’s just me, she thought, but why does it always seem to be raining in Seattle? Droplets of moisture fell underneath the swing of her hair. It hadn’t exactly been a perfect day. Men had tried to pick her up in what seemed like every airport in the country; every single one of her flights had been delayed; and the final one, from Seattle to Spokane, Washington, had been canceled outright because of the relentless storm.

In Seattle, things had gone from bad to worse. While she didn’t relish the idea of driving five hours through the rain in a rented car, Mercedes was sure she was having a nightmare when the rental agent informed her all the cars had been taken for the evening, and would she care for a motorcycle?

She refused to take a bus, not for all the teacups in China.

Mercedes had been sitting in the airport restaurant, fighting jet lag and combating her hunger with a disgusting salad, when salvation had come in the form of a short, bright-eyed waiter. “Sounds terrible, ma’am. Me, I always check my horoscope and have my palm read before I travel. Hey, why not try the new bullet train? It’ll get you there in almost an hour, and they have these great all-glass observation cabins on top of the regular cars. You should give it a try.”

Sure, Mercedes thought, it’ll be an adventure. I’ll just sit back and read a good book. On her way to the ticket counter she picked up the latest paperback bestseller from the book stand.

So, after ignoring the roving eyes of the herd of commuting businessmen in the lower cabin, Mercedes forced herself up the stairs and found she was alone on the spacious deck. Wearily she sank down into one of the plush chairs and dropped her briefcase and purse at her feet. Even her eyelids were tired. She closed them and listened to the soothing thrum of the rain on all the yards of glass stretching over her. The track lighting was dim, and she felt the strain and tension from a day of maddening inconveniences and petty frustrations slip away. For the first time in three time zones she didn’t worry about her extremely unpressed suit or smudged makeup.

A heavy step on the stairs broke Mercedes from her meditation. Irritated, she sat up and peered through the gloom at the stairwell, where a man’s head and shoulders loomed unsteadily.

Mercedes took him in instantly, her photographer’s eye clicking away: a thirtysomething businessman in a cheap suit, not quite done digesting his liquid lunch. The toupee probably cost more than the ring he surreptitiously twisted off his left hand and dropped in his pocket. Mercedes had faced this a hundred times before; she knew exactly what this guy was going to—

“Say! Hello! The name’s Miles, and I couldn’t help but notice you walk in.” This one was smooth, or at least thought he was, straightening his tie and gesturing expansively at the same time. Probably in advertising, Mercedes thought. “So I said to myself, Miles, you old dog, you’ve met this fine woman before somehow, why not grab the opportunity to reintroduce—”

Mercedes wasn’t exactly sure what happened next, only that it happened fast. Something bumped into Miles from behind as he was about halfway up the stairs; hit him hard enough to actually knock him off balance. He whipped his arms around a few times before the toupee slid down over his eyes and he fell backwards onto the carpeted floor below. Mercedes winced at the heavy thud, then blinked in surprise at the cheery voice from below.

“Dreadful sorry about that, my dear lad, hope you don’t have a concussion, The old eyesight isn’t exactly all it used to be, what? Didn’t even see you loafing on the stairs like that. Oh, my, you did hit your head a bit, didn’t you?”

“Urkl,” replied Miles.

“I say, that’s a lovely hairpiece.” Mercedes placed the speaker’s age somewhere between seventy and eighty. She had to suppress a smile as the old man wheezed to the top of the stairs. He turned once again and called out to the foot of the stairs. “I’d lose the tie—if I were you.”

As he turned back and caught sight of Mercedes, his whole face lit up. Mercedes was unable to withhold her grin, and his face brightened even more. As he slowly hobbled closer, his warmth seemed to flow outward and wash over her, and she gestured to the seat across from her own. “Thank you, my dear,” he said as he settled himself in, leaning his umbrella against a large black suitcase and removing his hat. The shock of hair was brilliantly white, matching his bushy eyebrows. The old fellow was dressed in a worn black suit that had undoubtedly seen as many miles as the battered suitcase. He was tall but a bit stooped, and his smiling face was a maze of wrinkles. A fresh-picked rose sprouted from his buttonhole. Mercedes couldn’t decide which was more striking--his flaming red cheeks and beaklike nose, or the outrageous tie he wore. It was vividly colored and crafted to resemble a fish.

Oblivious to her scrutiny, the old man placed the suitcase on his lap, opened it a crack, and withdrew a steaming china cup. “Would you care for some hot chocolate, my dear? No? Well, pardon me, but it is, after all, high tea.” She watched with growing disbelief as he pulled a spoon from an inner pocket of his suit and stirred the drink a few times. “My-my-my. Terrible rain, what?” He stopped stirring and leaned the spoon against the outer rim of the cup. As he brought the cup to his lips, the spoon swung around and hit a flank of his great nose.

Calmly he set the cup down and moved the spoon back to its original position, then attempted to drink. As the cup tilted, the spoon hit him again. The sheer delicacy of his manner was ludicrous. Again he attempted to drink, and with the same result. He set the cup down and glared at the offending spoon.

Mercedes let a giggle escape her, and the old man’s frown turned instantly to a smile. Mercedes knew the battle was lost. Her laughter joined his wheezing chuckle in the cabin.

Presently he handed her a frog-embroidered handkerchief, and as she dabbed her eyes, he spoke. “Sorry about that, my dear, but you looked a bit sad, and I simply can’t bear the thought of a young person depressed. Please allow me to introduce myself.” He bowed slightly from his chair. “Gil Deguiser, professional salesman.” It sounded like ‘Geel.’ Probably French.

He sat and Mercedes handed him his handkerchief, shaking his hand. “Mercedes Adams, professional photographer.” Her smile remained. “What do you sell?”

Deguiser’s dark eyes twinkled as he sat back. “Look in your briefcase, my dear.” He sipped the hot chocolate delicately. “And don’t look so confused, you’ll give yourself unsightly wrinkles.”

Mercedes set the briefcase on her knees and dialed in the lock’s combination. The old man was absorbed with his drink. There, on top of her photograph folders and next to her new paperback was a little white business card. Mercedes set her open briefcase on the adjacent seat and read aloud.

“‘Gilitano Deguiser, Gower Street 007. Magic tricks for every occasion you can probably think of.’ Now, how did you do that?”

He set a gnarled finger against his lips. “Trade secret. Are those photos of yours?” He gestured with the spoon.

“Yes. I shot the ceremony in Cuba yesterday as President Espinosa took the oath of office.”

The old man finished his drink and set the cup down. “Dangerous work, that.”

“Yes,” she said. “I do my share of ducking bullets.” It didn’t quite sound ironic, saying it aloud.

“What’s that book you have there?”

Mercedes followed his gaze to the paperback she had bought to distract herself with on the trip.
Half to Death
, by Fletcher Engstrom. “Oh, I bought this just to take up the time. Its part of a series--very good, or so I’ve heard. They’re supposed to be making it into a movie or something. The fellow that writes them used to be a friend of mine. He writes under the name Fletcher Engstrom but his real name’s Jack Flynn.”

“No, really?” He was incredulous. “You don’t mean the actor, Jack Flynn.” Mercedes nodded. “Fascinating! And you know him! Tell me, what’s he like? I’ll bet his life story would sell for a pretty penny. Where’s he from, pray tell.”

Mercedes thought for a moment. She sure was talking a lot with this old gentleman. He had that quality about him, though, that made you want to open up. She decided she liked the old fellow. She began. “I haven’t seen or heard from him in years, but I knew him fairly well when we were younger. Jack was from Forge, Idaho--”

“Amazing! I used to sell from Post Falls to Boise! Quite a piece of country, I--pardon me, I’m stealing your story.”

But Mercedes had seen the light come into the old man’s eyes as he had slipped back along the tracks to the past. “No, please go on, that’s all right. What were you going to say?”

“Just that there were quite a number of athletes to come out of that area back then.” Deguiser could see she was interested, so he continued. “One year in particular, I remember the whole town of Boise turned out to watch the state swimming championships. Seemed like the whole town, anyway. Not a lot of people in Idaho, you know. At any rate, there I was, working the crowd, and enjoying the free show. There was one race in particular where a certain young man stood up on the blocks and the whole crowd from Northern Idaho went wild. Good looking fellow, too. Blond. He never seemed to notice the crowd, just kept staring at the water. All the time his hand was making these odd little gestures. Sign language, that’s what it was, yes! A boy next to me read sign, and as he watched he asked his mother why the young man on the starting block was spelling out the name of an imported car--”

Now it was Mercedes turn to interrupt. “It was Jack! You saw Jack!” Mercedes opened her purse and felt around inside as he went on.

“I did? Can’t seem to remember the name. Marvelous swimmer, though. What a race! Bless my soul, I think he won.”

As the words died out Mercedes held up a gleaming golden disk. “Kind of a . . . good luck charm. Been in there awhile.”

The old man turned the bright metal over and over in his gnarled hands. “I’m an old fool. Name of a car, indeed. The boy was spelling your name over and over, wasn’t he?”

Mercedes nodded, slipping the gold medal back into a sleeve of her wallet. “He never told me that.”

Deguiser exhaled deeply, running a hand through his tangled explosion of white hair. The sound of rain on the glass dome had almost ceased. The train seemed to be outrunning the storm.

“Did you love that boy?” he asked.

Mercedes searched for the right words. “I thought so,” she said slowly. “Jack was my first real boyfriend, I guess. Before I knew what boyfriends really were.” She had to smile. “You wouldn’t believe some of the crazy things he would do.” She glanced at the old man. He answered with the ghost of a grin. “I could never tell if he was serious about anything. He met my family dressed as the Bike Gang Member from Hell. No one ever figured out exactly how he managed it, but once he filled the school swimming pool with Jell-O and spelled my name with a million M&Ms. He’d make up terrible poems that wouldn’t rhyme, but would write me something new every day. Just the sort of person you’d expect to grow up and become a movie star.”

The old man leaned forward and spoke softly. “He sounds as though he loved you very much.”

Mercedes nodded, letting a few stray wisps of hair drift over her face. She could feel a tear starting to build despite herself. “He did. A little while after the race you saw, I got—I wasn’t well. He couldn’t believe that I didn’t want to see him or his letters. I suppose I was unfair to him. I mean, he tried to be understanding, but I never gave him much of a chance. And he was busy with his own life. Trying to figure himself out.

“Jack went on a religious mission to Eastern Europe for two straight years. I got better and went to college. By the time he got home I had changed addresses so many times he couldn’t find me.”

The old man was spellbound. “Why? Why did you do it?”

“All the time I was sick I kept thinking how little control I had over my own life. Jack was the only guy I had ever really dated. As fun as he was, there had to have been someone better. I had to find out if there was someone I could love more. There wasn’t anything wrong with Jack, but I didn’t know if he was ‘the one,’ you see?”

“Did you ever find ’the one’?” Deguiser asked.

“No, not yet.”

“Did you ever find anyone you loved more than Jack?”

“No.”

Her new friend frowned. “Then I’m afraid I don’t see.” Deguiser leaned forward, his aged face a crease of concern. “You had true love in your hands, and you threw it away? Do you realize how fantastically rare a gift that is? Oh, my dear.” The old man pulled out his frog handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Did you ever see him again?”

“There were rumors that he’d gotten married, but Jack was too superior to come to his high school reunion. I went to the premier of one of his movies a few years back and saw him there with some redheaded actress, but he didn’t see me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Jack’s the kind of guy who’d have leaped out of the balcony, slid down the curtains, and had me in his arms before I could’ve gotten away. Besides,” she smirked, “That redhead had his full attention.”