Chapter 11: Witchcraft    (print this)

THE DOOR SHUT BEHIND him and Henry found himself in the dark, cool interior of the limousine, sitting next to an olive-skinned man in an outfit that wouldn't have looked out of place on Jim Morrison: leather pants, leather boots and a leather blazer over a silk shirt open at the neck, all in black, as if an oil slick had suddenly gained the power to walk. The man looked to be in his forties, with curly black hair, but it was hard to tell as he was wearing very large, pitch black sunglasses to match. The only hint of light was on his ring finger, a bit of silver that caught Henry's eye only because the man held his hand clasped over the top of what looked to be, incongruously, a walking stick. When the man spoke his diction was perfect, clear and distinctly continental.

"Forgive the dramatics, Mr. Bethel, but time grows short and no action can suffer a wasted moment," he said.

"Oh not at all," said Henry. They appeared to be alone; smoked glass obscured the driver as the limo began to move. "I find a gun in my ribs to be quite refreshing. Makes me feel like James Garner."

The man paused, his face truly a mask, then burst into a hearty bark of a laugh. "Ahh, The Rockford Files! I remember, very amusing. That Angel, always causing great difficulties for the hero."

"Yes," said Henry, "perhaps we can have a Nick at Nite marathon later. Mind telling me why I've been kidnapped? Unless this is my secret induction into the Johnny Cash underground."

The man chuckled. "The Man in Black. Very droll, Mr. Bethel, just as your writings have shown. But we have not kidnapped you. We have taken you briefly into our confidence to impart information to you, information that will save many lives, including your own." The man did not seem to be looking at Henry as he spoke; his huge shades obscured all.

"What do you mean?" said Henry. "I'm just a Sinatraist. Did you need an autographed record? Forgot someone's birthday?"

The man's mouth grew serious. "My name is Konstantine Mangopoulos, Mr. Bethel. And your activities of late have been far more serious than trafficking in the ephemera of dead crooner."

"I'm beginning to think nothing is more important than ephemera," said Henry, trying to see out the heavily tinted window. "Straying from it has been nothing but trouble, it seems."

Mangopoulos laughed again, this time in the forced manner of a man unaccustomed to laughter. "Indeed, Mr. Bethel, you are, as they say, in over your head. Don Ix moves ever closer to his desire, and the Witch grows ever more cautious, more dangerous."

Henry stared at him. "The Witch?" He instinctively knew whom the man meant.

"Many names will do, but Witch will do for our purposes." Mangopoulos still refused to turn his head as he spoke, talking to Henry almost as if he was an underling, or a child. Henry began to feel angry.

"Strong name for an artist whose work you don't like, Mr. Mangopoulos. Or is this some personal matter?"

The man chuckled ruefully, his face more and more a mask. "You could say it was personal, Mr. Bethel, in as much as it's been a long time, a very long time…" His voice trailed off as Henry stared at his profile, hard. "But that is of little importance," Mangopoulos continued. "What is important is this fact, a fact you will scoff at but one which you must remember, from now until this battle has at last played itself out: Maude S— is death. Death for all those she comes in contact with."

"Don't tell me she broke your heart on the Riviera…" Henry began scornfully. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe: like a cobra the fingers of Mangopoulos' left hand were at one his windpipe, forcing him back into the seat while the dark man spoke, still staring at some fixed point in the distance.

"It is no good to warn you to stay away. This we already know. Don Ix has played his opening moves well. But you will listen and understand the time for joking is over. Your life is in peril, and if you do not listen carefully you will not survive."

Then, like a spring instantly recoiled, the dark man's hands were clasped again on the head of his stick, as Henry gasped for air.

"Forgive me, again, Mr. Bethel. But that is the level of danger you are in. Death will come to you so quick you will still be asking his name after you are cold."

"You've… made your point," Henry sputtered. If only Nap had followed him out of the bar… where was this headed? "What is this all about? Why does Don Ix want Maude S—'s private artworks? Why is Maude dangerous?"

Mangopoulos sighed heavily. "Alas, Mr. Bethel, we have reached the most difficult part of this interview. I wish you to understand the deadliness of the path you are on. But if I revealed to you why that path is so deadly… well," and here, a faint smile, "how do you say… you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Now it was Henry's turn to let loose a mirthless laugh. "Wonderful. I think it's time I threw this whole bad dream into the dustbin of unrewarding experiences and went to Tahiti for a few months."

"You will do nothing like that," said Mangopoulos. "Don Ix has gone to some trouble to make you his agent, whether you've been willing to be or not. He will not dispense with you so easily. And," he paused again, his head cocked as if to sniff the air, "the Witch already has you under her spell."

"Excuse me?" said Henry, baffled. "She's not that powerful of an artist."

"What is the cliché? Art is in the eye of the beholder?" Mangopoulos smiled his grim smile again. "And so is Death, Mr. Bethel. So is Death."

The limo took a hard right. Henry felt as if he'd been shook up and down inside a great, black bag. "Our time is near its end, Mr. Bethel. There are three more details to attend to."

Mangopoulos reached down to the floor by his feet and brought up an ornate box to his lap. Reaching into it without looking down he withdrew a small oval object in a leather case.

"Take this. Keep it on your person at all times. You will know what to do with it when the time comes… it will be your only defense."

Henry shoved it into his jacket. He felt rage building in him, rage more than fear. He was about to speak when Mangopoulos shoved another, larger object into his hands, something hard and heavy and wrapped in blue velvet.

"Take this as well. Know that this is but a small piece of the sorrow the Witch has inflicted."

The limo slowed to a stop. "Finally, Mr. Bethel, you must do one final thing, for your safety and the safety of others. Tell Don Ix you have seen the works in question. Make it as fanciful as you like. But give him a report, and make it good. Convince him you have seen the Witch's… art. It might be the only thread that shall lead you out of this labyrinth."

The door opened and sunlight slashed at Henry's eyes. The gunsel in the track suit stood there, and Henry realized he was Greek as well. "I now must bid you farewell," said Mangopoulos.

Henry put one foot on the pavement, then turned. "Thank you for the information and the ride, Mr. Mangopoulos, or whoever you really are, but understand this: I'm out of this labyrinth right now. I'm fed up with these dime store mysteries, yours and Maude's and Don Ix's and whoever else has been watching too many thrillers. This is my last stop: I'm not an art critic anymore, and I have no more tolerance for the games that rich assholes play in their off hours. So why don't you and Maude and Don Ix all go out for drinks on somebody's yacht and hash it out. I'm through with this bullshit. Are we clear?"

Mangopoulos smiled, a little sadly this time, still not looking at Henry directly. "Ah, but I fear you continue to make the same mistake," he said. Henry was now up and out of the limo, the gunsel pushing past him into its luxurious cave. Mangopoulos leaned toward him, and Henry now noticed his silver ring: it was a winged horse set in blue lapis.

"You are not the hero of this epic, Mr. Bethel." And with that he shut the door, leaving Henry Bethel standing in the parking lot of the Double Down Saloon, clutching a velvet bag and watching the long black shark glide into the traffic bound for the airport.

He stood there stupidly for a few moments, feeling his rage build, fuming, before weariness seized him and he stumbled toward his car, collapsing in the front seat and rubbing his temples. It was a few minutes later that he noticed the object the man in black had thrust at him. Shaking his head, he slowly unwrapped it, wondering if Maude S— had crossed the Greek Mafia or something. Was there even a Greek Mafia? At last, Henry stripped the velvet away and simply sat there, staring at the gray thing in his lap.

It was a hand.