FSF Magazine, August 2007 Page 3

  "I am an engineer. I do not fear truth, merely statistics.” Berry cradled the coffee reverently in his cupped palms. “By all we hold most dear, I freely swear that we've come to rescue Bixby out of purest friendship."

  "Oh.” Bella had the stricken look of someone who'd not only backed the wrong horse, but had done so at a dog race.

  "And also because if we don't get him back for our weekly poker game soon, we'll have to replace him with Lyndon.” The dwarf shuddered.

  "Lyndon?” Bella echoed.

  "Lyndon the ogre,” Tom volunteered.

  "Lyndon the blood-drinking, bone-crunching, flesh-rending, lousy poker-playing, sore-losing, vicious-tempered, troll-punching, dwarf-crushing, ondine-squishing, pixie-swatting ogre,” Selina elaborated.

  "The designer from the independent florist shop in the lobby, yes, that Lyndon,” Berry said. “Our poker game is the envy of all the other hotel employees, both for the camaraderie and the chance to pick up some serious winnings."

  "Like Bixby was doing for the past six weeks before you captured him,” Selina said hotly. “The son-of-a-kobold was way ahead, and we all want the chance to win some of our own back."

  "Ahead by how much?” Bella asked.

  "Coupla thou'."

  "Mmmm, big money.” Bella was impressed.

  "Not money. Starbucks gift cards."

  "Our co-workers know we play honestly, no magic-enhanced cheating allowed, and they don't trust one another enough to start up games of their own,” Berry said. “They all want in, so we maintain a waiting list, in case one of us should drop out some day, for whatever reason. Lyndon's name tops that list. One more week without Bixby and we'll have to let him join the game.” Berry clasped his sturdy hands around the coffee beans in a gesture of supplication so tight that a third of the bag was rendered into a fine espresso grind. “Ma'am, for the sake of friendship, for the sake of compassion, for the sake of poker, I implore you, let our brownie go!"

  "Ask me after my party,” said Bella, and burst into cackles of victorious laughter.

  * * * *

  Bixby stood beneath the familiar green and gold awning that sheltered the main entrance to the Hotel Tiernan, a sheaf of papers in his hands. The doorman on duty was a gnome named Hork. A huge smile broke across his face as he recognized the errant brownie.

  "By the blesséd Mill, lad, you don't mean to say you're free again?” he cried, holding the door wide in welcome. “Mel told me of your sorry trials. Ah, dreadful doings, that, just dreadful, but here you are, home again, so all's well that—"

  "Shut the door, Hork,” Bixby said, glum. “I'm not free, I'm only here to deliver milady's list of demands for the party she's won on a wager. I fear that if I went through those beloved doors, knowing I'll be forced to leave once more, it would break my heart. Be a good bogle and summon one of my poker chums to take this.” He rattled the bunch of papers.

  Hork set two fingers to his lips and blew a whistle so shrill and commanding that taxis came flocking from blocks away, like seagulls to a garbage barge. The piercing sound also fetched Melusine, lovely in her plumber's uniform. Bixby handed over Bella's list wordlessly and turned to leave.

  "Oh, Bixby, I wish there were something we could do to save you!” she called after him.

  He paused and looked back. “And what might that be?” he replied. The expression of total defeat on his face brought seaweed-steeped tears to the ondine's eyes. “I'm caught fast in the grasp of a greedy mortal with fingers stickier than spiderweb strands. She fancies herself the victim of harsh times, but never once has she shown a wisp of the compassion she demands from the world. She feels no hurts but her own. I'll die in her service, Melusine."

  "Bixby, you mustn't talk about such things!"

  "What, death? At this point it would, as Clint Eastwood says, make my day.” He trudged off.

  Mel wiped her eyes, then looked down at the list Bixby had given her. Berry had told Bella Franklin to be specific in her desires for the party, implying that she'd get exactly what she asked for, no more and no less. It wasn't typical behavior for the otherwise generous-souled dwarf, but the mortal creature had gotten his dander up to stratospheric levels. Bella in turn had set her shrewd mind to beating him at his own game. The law profession would never know how much it had lost when Bella Franklin turned to hawking lipsticks instead of litigation. The list of party specs showed the master hand of a highly gifted and vindictive nitpicker. Everything was there, from appetizers and aperitifs to desserts and décor. There was only one thing that she seemed to have missed.

  "Stupid dust-muncher really dropped the ball on this,” Melusine said to herself. “What a thing to overlook! She knows we're not obliged to include anything left off the list, but I'll bet she'll fly into a snit if we don't take care of this. Ah well, it'll be easy enough to fix.” Mel pulled out a waterproof pen and scribbled an addendum to the list. “I'll just go visit Lyndon and—"

  The ondine stopped short, pen hovering a hair above the page. “Ooooh!” A radiant smile of inspiration lit up her face and she ran a chartreuse tongue over sharp, fishy teeth. She raced back into the Hotel Tiernan so fast that Hork the door-gnome was left puzzling over whether he had or had not actually heard an ondine utter a throaty, gloating, Mwahahahaha.

  * * * *

  Bella Franklin's party was a small yet sumptuous brunch, the tasteful confines of the Hotel Tiernan's Oberon Suite contrasting nicely with the primped and polished vulgarity of her guests. The higher-ups of Speranza Storm Cosmetics crowded around the buffet table as though their lives depended on building up a layer of shrimp-based flesh to see them through the winter. When a waiter emerged from the kitchen with a tray of crab-stuffed mushroom caps, he almost perished in the stampede. The chef manning the prime rib carving station clutched his knife with dew-browed desperation as he begged the ladies to give him a break; he was flinging slabs of dripping red meat onto their plates as fast as he could. High above the guzzling, gulping crowd, Selina hovered unnoticed. The pixie chef had every right to look pleased; she'd outdone herself with this spread. There was even a whole roasted pig up for grabs, complete with obligatory apple-in-mouth and gratuitous tattoo of Bella Franklin's face across the porker's left buttock.

  As for the lady thus immortalized, the insult rolled off her like sauce à l'orange off a Long Island duckling's back. She leaned against the open bar, sipping a dry martini and surveying the scene. A leer of triumph crawled across her lips as she topped off her glass with the last dribble from the individual cocktail shaker at her elbow. Then, habit being habit, she wrapped the shaker in a napkin and stuffed it into her purse, a be-sequinned behemoth she'd acquired precisely for its stowage capabilities.

  "You look happy, milady,” Bixby said dully. He was still hermetically sealed in his Hawai'ian hottie glamour, but for tonight he'd been tricked out in a tux.

  "And why shouldn't I be?” Bella plucked the bar clean of matchbooks, dropped them into her abyss of a bag, then added two peanut bowls (peanuts included) for good measure. “So far, six Speranza Storm vice presidents have made it a point to talk to me. They reeked of free oysters Rockefeller. They'll surely remember my name when it's time to hand out the big rewards at next year's convention."

  "Bully for you, milady."

  Bella showed her teeth in a panther's smile. “Poor Bixby, you don't look happy at all. Maybe a drink would cheer you up.” She called for the bartender's attention. “Another dry martini for me and an Irish coffee for my friend over here.” She fattened avidly on the light of hope that kindled in Bixby's eyes, then extinguished with a quick, cruel: “Hold the coffee.” She patted Bixby's stricken face and cooed, “Tsk, tsk, wasn't that a near thing? You almost got to drink some Tiernan House Blend again, and we both know what that would do. Lucky I saved you just in time."

  "Whatever you say, milady.” A lone tear trickled down Bixby's cheek.

  Berry and Mel approached the bar, glamoured to the nines as Eurotrash—sleek, chic, bored, a
nd black-clad. “I trust everything is to your liking, ma'am?” the dwarf asked from an unusual (for him) height.

  "It'll do,” Bella replied languidly. “But whose stupid idea was it to make the centerpieces that big?” She gestured at the towering thickets of day lilies, orchids, and roses on every table.

  "That would be Lyndon, ma'am,” Berry replied. “He likes to think big. It comes naturally to an ogre."

  "An ogre who's also one heck of a shrewd businessman,” Mel put in.

  "What's so shrewd about cramming half a garden onto every table?” Bella's gesture swept the room. “It's wasteful!"

  "Not when he can reuse the same arrangements at several events."

  "He can?” Berry seemed genuinely surprised by this news.

  Mel nodded. “No shrinkage, you see. None of the floral arrangements can go walkabout between the one o'clock bridesmaids’ luncheon, the four o'clock tea party, and the seven o'clock testimonial dinner. Who'd want to take home something this big? Who could?"

  "You mean that after my party he's going to recycle my flowers at someone else's affair?” Bella began to seethe.

  "To be honest, ma'am, they're not your flowers.” Mel produced Bella's detailed list and handed it back to her. “You'll notice you forgot to specify centerpieces of any sort, big or small. The fact that the Hotel Tiernan provided them anyway—"

  "Your halo's in the mail,” Bella snapped. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to see to my invited guests.” She pushed her way past Berry and Melusine, Bixby bobbing in her wake.

  Tom the troll lumbered up behind his friends. Like them, he was in human guise. He looked quite dashing in his security guard uniform, and quite ill at ease with the unwanted attention it attracted from the Speranza Storm crowd. “Mind if I stick close t’ yer?” he asked, casting nervous glances at the predatory females. “Brrrr! They looks ready t’ gobble me up like I was a nighty-night mint onna pillow."

  Selina zoomed down from the chandelier to perch on his shoulder. “Can't blame ‘em if you're irresistible, Tom,” she said. “It's those rock-hard abs. Pity the girls don't know they're real rocks.” She laughed so hard that she fell into the troll's ear.

  "Selina!” Without pausing to think what such a spectacle must look like to the casual observer, Berry stuck two fingers into Tom's ear and saved the pixie from a waxy fate. “Burnt beans, look at the mess you—"

  "Eeeeeuuuuwwwww!” The shriek of utter horror and disgust that burst from the throat of the Speranza Storm bigwig who'd just witnessed Selina's rescue caused every eye in the Oberon Suite to latch onto the four poker buddies. “What is that thing?” the woman yowled. “A cockroach? Stuck in his ear?"

  "Hey! I'm no cockroach!” The very idea infuriated Selina beyond all measure. Her tiny wings vibrated with such violence that all traces of her recent sojourn down Tom's ear canal liquefied and were flung everywhere. More of the women squealed in revulsion as droplets of trollish ear wax spattered their best polyester bib and tucker. They fled the party en masse. In less than a minute, the only sign that the room had once been packed with women was a scattering of peel-and-gorge shrimp carapaces, the skid pattern of high heel marks on the parquet, and the cloud of excess eye shadow and blusher slowly settling over the abandoned tables.

  "Whoa,” the pixie remarked, scanning the echoing, evacuated space. “What crawled up their bloomers?"

  "You ... monsters! Look what you did to my party!” Bella Franklin sailed across the floor, her rage leaving Bixby abandoned on the far side of the room. “Is this how you honor your bets?"

  "Ma'am, the wager specified only that we'd give you a party,” Berry said.

  "There wasn't one word uttered about how long it had to last,” Mel added, her words all the more aggravating because they were true.

  Bella was in no mood for logic. She roared an obscenity and slapped Berry and Mel across their faces before they could react. Selina was quicker and easily soared out of the maddened mortal's reach. Bella cursed the elusive pixie and turned on Tom in her frustration. A howl of pain followed the hearty smack she dealt across the troll's chops. It did not come from him.

  "Bloody mythological illiterate,” Mel said again, this time with a smile. “Some people know that trolls are made of stone."

  "You ruined me!” Bella shouted, tenderly holding her injured hand. “You humiliated me in front of every Speranza Storm V.I.P. in existence! Do you know who first saw that miserable cockroach?"

  "Hey!” Selina objected from on high.

  "Only the president of Speranza Storm Cosmetics, that's all. You destroyed my future! I'll kill you!"

  "Beggin’ yer pardon, ma'am,” Tom said. “But I'd like t’ see yer try."

  Bella gritted her teeth. “Oh, you'll see. When I get home, I'm working your pal Bixby to death, once and for all! It won't take long. Not once I revoke his percolator privileges."

  The four friends gasped. “Ma'am, you can't mean it!” Melusine cried. “To keep him from the sacred brew is unbelievable cruelty, even for a mortal."

  "Also, real stupid,” Selina put in from on high. “If you whack Bixby, there goes your housekeeping slave."

  "I survived without him before,” Bella retorted. “It'll be worth it."

  "Ma'am, I beg of you, think,” Berry said. “We'll mourn Bixby's loss, but it won't kill us."

  "It won't. Lyndon the ogre will.” Bella leered nastily through the pain from her self-mangled hand. “Lyndon the troll-punching, dwarf-crushing, ondine-squishing, pixie-swatting, sore loser ogre. Think I wasn't paying attention? With Bixby dead, you'll have to bring him into the game right away, and then you'll either have to let him win every hand or face a world of hurt. You'll end up broke or broken, I don't care which. Maybe he won't kill you outright, but you'll wish you were dead.” She turned her back on them and bellowed, “Bixby!” The brownie came running. “We're going home. Say goodbye."

  "Yes, milady,” Bixby replied sadly. “Farewell, Tom, Selina, Melusi—"

  "Not farewell,” Bella interrupted. “Goodbye.” Her smirk was pitiless. She headed for the door without a backward glance. She knew Bixby had no choice save to follow her, even to his death. She only paused long enough to scoop up one of the towering centerpieces and stuff it partway into her purse. It must have been agony to accomplish with her wounded hand, but as always, greed overruled every other aspect of Bella Franklin's life.

  "Ma'am, you can't take that. It doesn't belong to—” Berry began.

  "After all I spent to stay in this fleabag, it damn well should,” Bella shot back, and stalked out of the Oberon Suite, slamming the door behind herself and Bixby.

  * * * *

  The reverberations were still fading when Berry, Tom, Melusine, and Selina ditched their expressions of shock in favor of wicked smiles. “Nicely coordinated, friends,” Berry declared. He flipped open his cell phone and turned to Mel. “Now?"

  "Now."

  The dwarf hit a number on his speed dial and spoke a few choice words. Within the space of two heartbeats, the peace of the Hotel Tiernan was shattered by a gut-knotting shriek of pain and terror. Then there was silence, soon followed by the sound of heavy, ominous footsteps approaching the closed door of the Oberon Suite.

  With a thunderous kick that sent the door flying across the room, Lyndon the ogre made his entrance. One massive paw held the floral arrangement that had left the premises in Bella Franklin's swag-engulfing handbag. He replaced it carefully on its table and left without a word, nonchalantly picking some stringy, sticky, crimson bits out of his fangs. Bixby sidled in just under the departing ogre's elbow, his mortal glamour gone, his whole body shivering with distress.

  "He ate—he ate—he ate her!” the brownie cried, with a fearful backward glance at Lyndon's retreating form.

  "Well, I should hope so,” Mel said. “That was the plan."

  "Praise the blesséd Mill, it worked.” Berry dabbed his brow with a wadded pocket handkerchief. “If the Franklin woman hadn't taken those flowers—"
>
  "Pass up a freebie like that? Her?” Mel waved one hand in a cavalier manner. “It was only a matter of when she'd rise to the bait, not if. And believe me, I know bait. Personally."

  "But how could he do it?” Bixby protested. “How could he harm a guest? The bond of hospitality—"

  "—does not apply to the florist shop, unless the guest has actually purchased flowers,” Berry said.

  "Lyndon has certain standards, for an ogre,” Mel added. “One of them is zero tolerance for petty filchery, especially when he needs every last one of these arrangements for the Siegelman bar mitzvah later today."

  "Mazel tov!” Selina concluded. She clapped her hands and a goblin busboy appeared, bearing a tray laden with a steaming coffee pot, four cups, and a thimble for the pixie. “Tiernan House Blend,” she announced gleefully as her minion pressed a filled cup into Bixby's hands, then served the others. “Welcome home!"

  Bixby gratefully gulped the brew that renewed the ancient tie, then took a deep breath and said, “My dear friends, how can I ever thank you?"

  "Try losing a hand now and then,” Selina proposed.

  "Or just thank Melusine,” Berry said. “This was all her idea."

  "Don't mention it.” The ondine gave Bixby a warm, somewhat damp hug. “Hey, coffee and a free brownie? There are worse ways to start the day."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Books To Look For by Charles de Lint

  Worshipping Small Gods, by Richard Parks, Prime Books, 2007, $14.95.

  Hereafter, and After, by Richard Parks, PS Publishing, 2007, $18.

  * * * *

  Back in a 2002 installment of this column, in a review of Richard Parks's The Ogre's Wife, and Other Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups (Obscura Press), I made mention of how I was unfamiliar with Parks's byline and was therefore a little surprised to realize that I'd already read most of the stories in The Ogre's Wife in their initial magazine publications.

  I still have trouble retaining the names of authors in anthologies and magazines, but I remember Parks now—his is now one of the bylines I look for on a contents page—and this time I was expecting to be familiar with the stories collected in Worshipping Small Gods. I look for his stories because, since I've managed to imprint his name on my memory, I also remember that he's one of my favorite short form writers working today. While I never know what to expect when I start a story of his, I do know it will be good. And worth rereading.