He wandered aimlessly for a few blocks, realized that such behavior in Manhattan verged on suicidal, headed over to Rofocale’s building, tried the door of the demon’s apartment, and found it locked.
Well, at least you’re walking, he thought, which was preferable to the alternatives that Rofocale could extend his arm from the bed to the door handle, or that he had died and the landlord had locked the door after disposing of the body.
Raven went back out onto the street, turned to his right, walked up to the corner, and was waiting for the light to change when he was approached by an old lady holding a batch of helium-filled balloons by their strings.
“Evening, mister,” she said in a hoarse, very tired voice.
“Not interested,” said Raven.
“You’re not interested in evenings?” she said. “I don’t blame you. I prefer sunlight.”
Raven smiled. “I mean, I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”
“Without even knowing what it is?” she said. “What if it’s a trip to the wildly exotic Bahamas?”
“You’re not going to believe it, but I’ve been to more exotic places in the past couple of days. Much more.”
“Then it’s lucky for both of us that I’m not selling trips to the Bahamas, isn’t it?”
“I’d have to agree,” said Raven. He smiled. “And I’m still not interested.”
“In what?”
“A lot of things—including balloons.”
“What makes you think I’m selling balloons?” she said. “Maybe I’m selling Mitzi, my kid sister.”
“Are you?” he asked, looking around.
“No. But if I was . . .”
“I’d politely decline,” said Raven. “The light’s changed twice since we started talking. Why don’t you make your sales pitch, and then we can both be on our way?”
She reached into a pocket and withdrew a glowing blue marble, about the size of a wisdom tooth.
“I haven’t played marbles in twenty years,” said Raven.
“I haven’t played marbles in sixty years,” she replied. “But this isn’t for playing. It’s a good luck charm.” She stared intently at him. “You strike me as a man who could use one.”
“Oh?”
She nodded her head. “It’s a very unusual charm, for very unusual dangers.”
“What kind of dangers do you think I’m going to encounter?” he asked.
She smiled. “I’m just a poor saleswoman, sir, not a prognosticator.”
“But you’re enough of a prognosticator to know I need a good luck charm?”
She smiled again. “Not I, sir. As I said, I’m merely a saleswoman. It was the charm that selected you.”
“Could you explain that, please?” said Raven.
“Probably not,” she replied. “At least, not in a manner than you would accept.” She looked at her naked wrist. “My goodness, it’s getting late. Please pay me and I’ll be heading home.”
“How much?” asked Raven.
She frowned. “What’s it worth to you, good sir?”
He reached into a pocket, withdrew his wallet, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to her.
“Acceptable?” he said.
“I would have thought your life was worth more than that,” she said. Then he shrugged. “But what the hell—mine isn’t. Yes, we have a bargain. May it protect you in time of need.” She turned away from him and began walking. “But not before I get home safe and sound.”
He watched her for perhaps a minute, then crossed the street. He considered the past few minutes, had a difficult time believing he had actually experienced them, and stuck a hand in his pants pocket, grasping the marble.
“Were you watching, Lisa?” he said softly as he walked down the empty street. “Was this your idea, and can you give me a hint about what the hell I’m going to need it for?”
But there was no answer.
Still restless despite the late hour, he headed toward some lights, found a small tavern open, entered, and sat down on a stool at the bar.
“What’ll it be, fella?” asked the bartender.
Raven shrugged. “A beer, I guess.”
The bartender walked to the tap and activated it. There were some spurting sounds, and he frowned. Finally he pulled the half-filled glass away and carried it over to Raven.
“Ran out of beer until the five a.m. delivery,” said the bartender. “No charge for less than a full glass. This is your lucky night, fella.”
“Thanks,” said Raven. Silently he added, I hope it brings me better luck than that. “I’ve been out of circulation for a few days—so what’s new?”
“Mets lost another one. Knicks are fighting their number one pick over his salary, or their offer of his salary, or something. Anyway, it’s got to do with money. Aqueduct’s coming up fast tomorrow, and Can’t Miss looks pretty good in the fourth race.”
“Any news that doesn’t concern sports?”
The bartender grimaced. “Nothing’s changed. They still want to raise taxes, they still overpay everyone in the mayor’s office and still underpay all the cops, they still haven’t figured out how to pay for another tunnel under the East River.”
“Could be worse,” said Raven. “A red-tinted demon could walk in the door, looking for someone to carry off.”
“Wherever he takes ’em, it can’t be any worse than here,” said a man whom Raven hadn’t seen before sitting at the far end of the bar.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said another man who was seated alone at a small table in a corner. “Hard to believe that Hell isn’t a little bit worse.” He paused. “’Course, they ain’t got no beer in Hell.”
“They ain’t got any here, neither,” said the man at the bar.
Somehow, thought Raven, this isn’t any more interesting or enlightening that sitting alone in my apartment, staring at a wall. He drained his glass, nodded at the bartender, then walked to the door and out into the street.
He looked at the sky, hopeful for a sign of impending daylight but seeing none.
All right, he thought. I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for anyway. Am I glad to be back? Kind of. Nothing wrong with being Alan Quatermain or Fitzwilliam Darcy, though I can think of lots of people I’d rather be than Frankenstein’s monster, if he’s a people at all. He frowned. How can she just tell me she’s the Mistress of Illusions and then vanish?
He grimaced, reached for a cigarette, suddenly remembered that he didn’t smoke, and increased his pace. There was a drunk sprawled across the sidewalk, and he stepped around, rather than over, him.
He stopped mid-block, looking back the way he had come, then the direction in which he was going, and finally at the dilapidated buildings that seemed to be surrounding him and closing in upon him.
“Back off!” he muttered softly enough that no one lingering between the buildings could hear him. “I may not be the Master of Dreams or the Mistress of Illusions, but I’m somebody pretty damned important or I wouldn’t even know them, so keep your distance.”
There was no response, nor had he really anticipated any.
He decided he’d experienced enough strangeness for one night, decided to put off seeing Rofocale until tomorrow, increased his pace, walked the last few blocks to his apartment building, opened the front door, climbed the stairs to his apartment, pulled out his key, and unlocked the door. Before he entered, he reached his right hand into his pants pocket and clutched the marble, then let go of it after he’d turned on the lights and convinced himself that the apartment was empty.
He considered turning on the television, decided that there was nothing that he cared to see two hours before dawn, and considered sitting down with a good book, which required him to walk over to his bookcase and select one.
He was confronted by short rows of mystery, adventure, and science fiction books, plus a couple of mainstream paperbacks, and even a biography or two.
So what’ll it be? he asked himself.
“So what’ll it be?” said a harsh voice.
Was that me?
“Damn it, speak up!” said the voice. “I ain’t got all day, Robin!”
He looked around, but the familiar walls and furnishings of his apartment had vanished. He was in a stone-walled room, with sturdy metal bars on the door and windows. He looked down and saw he was wearing some kind of outfit made of a very coarse cloth that exposed his arms and most of his legs. Standing next to him was a blond man who bore the physique of a defensive end, close to seven feet tall and three hundred pounds, and dressed in much the same manner.
“I’m asking one last time,” said the voice from the other side of the door, “and if I don’t get an answer, you can do without anything to eat until tomorrow.”
“We’ll take the goat,” said his companion.
“Okay,” said the man. “And remember, Little John, you’ve got a cellmate now, so leave the poor bastard a bite or two.”
Little John cursed at him and spat on the filthy floor.
“As if we had a choice,” he said to Raven. “We could have goat, or we could have goat.”
“How long have we been here?” asked Raven.
Little John stared at him and shook his head. “They really busted your noggin, didn’t they, Robin? I’ve been here maybe three weeks. They just dragged you in four or five hours ago.”
“Where is ‘here’?” asked Raven.
“I guess you could call it the Sheriff of Nottingham’s hotel for enemies.” Suddenly Little John smiled. “And he ain’t got no greater enemies than Robin Hood and his Merry Men.”