Highfire Read online

  The Pearl River was bustling now—nothing compared to the Port of New Orleans, but by St. Tammany Parish standards they were bang in the middle of rush hour, with tour cruisers heading out for the afternoon shift, loaded to the gunwales with folks itching for a glimpse of the legendary Honey Island monster.

  I could tell them, thought Squib. The monster is real as all hell, but he don’t reside on Honey Island.

  These boats could be his salvation, Squib realized. Vern had stayed alive by keeping himself to himself, so could be the dragon would not relish breaching the surface with so many itchy shutter-fingers on the river, so he plotted himself a zigzag course cross-river, bumping up close to the tour cruisers, just a traditional-type Cajun boy willing to flash his poor-ass optimistic smile for the tourists. It took a while longer to make the journey, but Squib reckoned he wasn’t in no particular hurry, and the cruisers kept him safe from dragon strike.

  Dragon strike. Imagine, that’s a real thing. If Charles Jr. knew, he would crap his pants.

  This wasn’t a word of exaggeration. Charles Jr. had crapped his pants once before, in seventh grade, when some asshole in a clown mask had snuck up on him. His friend would have a pants-crapping reputation still if Waxman hadn’t advised him through Squib to climb up on a cafeteria table and drop his jeans, confirming the monster-dick rumors. And as Waxman had predicted, dick trumps drawers any day of the week.

  It took a while, but eventually Squib got eyes on Waxman’s houseboat, rising up outta the river like part of the cypress forest, all camouflaged apart from a flash of the awning round back. Squib came up on Waxman one time when the old man was down past the label on a bottle of Jameson and learned a couple of things. One, the swamp dweller didn’t much care for vodka, and two, he disliked circus folk even more than clear spirits.

  Old Waxman never drilled down into either comment much, but it had left Squib wondering why the hell he was delivering crates of Absolut to the houseboat once a fortnight.

  For an old boy who don’t like vodka, he sure chugs through an amount of it.

  As Squib tied off on Waxman’s pole, it occurred to him that maybe here was a guy who could offer some advice re: his dragon situation. It was said in town that Waxman was near to one hundred years old, and surely to Christ a man couldn’t live on the water that long and not catch a sniff of a dragon downriver.

  Could be old Waxman will have a trick or two up that velvet sleeve of his.

  Squib hefted the crate of Absolut from his boat and swung it onto the deck, where it landed with a jangle of clinkings.

  “Waxman,” he called, announcing his presence loud and clear. It didn’t do to sneak up on anybody in the bayou. The human-to-gun ratio in this swamp was about five times the national average, and the shots-fired-to-guns-owned ratio was even higher. “It’s your boy, Squib Moreau. I got you a crate of Russian lightning.”

  “Lug it in, boy,” came Waxman’s voice from inside the houseboat. It was an out-of-the-ordinary type of voice. Maybe the acid that’d done for his face had soaked through the vocal cords. Waxman sounded like one of those old-time blues singers who spent sixty years in smoky joints and came out the other end with a growl like a junkyard dog. Squib liked the sound; he liked sitting around listening to Waxman talk about long ago, shit that went down when castles had murder holes and battle was waged with honest-to-God axes. Horror stories, but cool to listen to.

  “I’m coming, Waxman,” said Squib, and rather than humping the blue plastic crate, he just dragged it across the planks, smooth as they were with great age.

  Generally Squib would’ve said “Mister Waxman” or “sir,” schooled in manners as he was by his momma, but Waxman didn’t hold no truck with formalities: “Just ‘Waxman,’ boy, less’n you wanna call me ‘Handsome Waxman,’ and then I know you be lying.”

  So plain old “Waxman” it was.

  Squib pulled aside the screen and nudged the crate through the doorway with the toe of his Converse. He sighed hugely, as though he had completed the labors of Hercules.

  “There she is, Waxman. One crate of Absolut, free from additives and colorants. Hell, it’s practically a health drink.”

  Waxman was in his upright armchair, which, according to Bodi Irwin, he had shipped from England, where it might one time have been warmed by the queen’s royal behind.

  Squib picked up the crate and carried it into the center of the room, lifting his feet over the overlapping edges of the rugs. He plonked it down on a small round table that didn’t look balanced right, the stem being off to one side; didn’t seem like it could bear the weight, but it always did.

  “You should come down to the bar one Saturday,” said Squib. “Could be you’d like it.”

  Waxman stuck out his lower lip and shook his head. “I ain’t a fan o’ mankind, son. With certain exceptions.”

  “Me being one of those exceptions, I’m hoping,” said Squib.

  “You being one, Bodi another. I like you fine, but I ain’t about to go buck-sociable, no offense.”

  “None taken. I’m happy to be liked.”

  Waxman shifted in his chair. “Sometimes being liked ain’t enough, Squib.”

  “It’s enough when you don’t experience it none too often. So far in my life, I’ve gathered three likes and one love. That sure seems enough for me.”

  “More than I got,” admitted Waxman.

  “So with that in mind,” said Squib, lowering himself into the weird assless chair, slowly, in case Waxman wasn’t in the mood for chitchat, “maybe you could advise me on a problem I got.”

  Waxman frowned. He was obviously on the point of not wanting shit to do with Squib’s problem when he threw a quick glance over his shoulder into the shadows and seemed to change his mind. “Well, maybe I could, son. Maybe I could at that. Waxman has seen it all, and what he ain’t seen, he can hazard a guess at. So why don’t you open on up?”

  Squib was hesitant now that he had leave to spit it out. “It’s a strange one, Waxman.”

  “Worse than Charles Jr. and the soiled britches?”

  “Yeah, I gotta say. Way worse. I near to soiled my britches my own self.”

  “Shit, boy. Now I’m intrigued. Lay it on out, and don’t spare the color.”

  Squib took several quick breaths like he was preparing to dive into icy waters and then blurted out the whole thing: Hooke, Carnahan, the face-eating turtle, and, of course, Vern the dragon.

  Waxman sagged when the telling was over. “Shit, son. You sketched that real well. Nice and calm, barely a stutter. You’ve had quite the night, ain’t you?”

  Squib nodded, allowing that he surely had.

  “And your tribulations ain’t over yet.”

  This was a statement not a question.

  “If this dragon don’t get you, then Hooke probably will.”

  Squib hadn’t even gotten around to fretting on Hooke. “I guess maybe, but Hooke ain’t getting no one from a hospital bed. It’s this Vern fella I’m concerned about.”

  Waxman twisted his beard. “Seems sensible.”

  Squib realized that he had been neither ejected nor mocked. “Are you saying that you believe me, Waxman?”

  Waxman smiled crookedly. “I ain’t sure about the face-eating turtle. Sounds far-fetched to me.”

  “But the dragon?”

  “Oh, him? Hell yeah, that old coot’s been around for years. The Honey Island monster. ’Cept he don’t live on no Honey Island. And he ain’t your typical monster.”

  “Right,” said Squib, feeling a little lighter simply from being credited with telling the truth. “He’s a dragon.”

  “I know it,” continued Waxman. “That motherfucker is older than the river itself.”

  This was all well and good, confirmation-wise, but Squib needed a solution. “So what do I do, Waxman? I ain’t got no options other than to leave the country.”

  “You told anybody?”

  Squib rolled his eyes. “Told anybody? Who’m I gonna tell? The cops?
I’d surely land my own ass in a cell, then I’m a sitting duck for Hooke. Momma? She frets enough already. Thinks I’m scarred by not having no daddy. Also, if she knew the truth, then Vern might do the entire family.”

  “How about Charles Jr.? The dick man?”

  “Charles ain’t exactly got his feet on the ground. Last week he swore to me that he was spending his nights in New Orleans man-whoring hisself. I ain’t trusting him with no sensitive information. You are the first and only person to hear this story.”

  “That’s good,” said Waxman. “Maybe we can bargain with that.”

  “Bargain? I don’t figure this dragon is for turning.”

  Waxman chewed on that then spoke a bit louder than seemed necessary. “You know, kid, I did hear that dragons were ornery cusses. Butt-ugly, too.”

  Squib had been far too awestruck by Vern to accept this. “I thought this Vern fella was kinda noble-looking. Big as all hell too. Like a basketballer. You shoulda seen the way he schooled those gators. Shit, I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

  “Just a pity Mister Noble wants to burn you, huh?”

  “Yeah,” said Squib, dejected. “If it weren’t for that. And I ain’t even gonna tell nobody.”

  “Here’s what I hear,” said Waxman, conducting the air. “Dragons like their entertainment—cable and such. Got their tastes, too: booze, Pringles, all very particular. Now, a butt-ugly dragon can’t exactly waltz hisself into town with a fistful of dollars in his scaly claws, so I’m guessing he needs himself a go-between—like how you go-between for me.”

  Squib jumped right on that notion, eager as he was for a solution. “Yeah. Like Renfield with Dracula. Vern needs himself a Renfield. I could Renfield the shit out of the bayou for him. Shit, I run deliveries for Bodi Irwin—can’t be much different. Whatever a dragon needs.”

  Waxman grinned wide, and for a second Squib thought something shifted behind his teeth, something like more teeth. “You said ‘Renfield’ a bunch of times there, kid. The way I remember reading it, Renfield was a pathetic old boy. I reckon Vern’s go-between is more of a partner in crime than a bug-eating half-wit.”

  “Yeah,” said Squib, “go in there like an equal. Like I got value.”

  “Like you got an offer he can’t refuse,” said Waxman. “Though Vern can be pigheaded.”

  At the second mention of the dragon’s name, something slotted into place inside Squib’s brain, and he found himself staring at the bottles of vodka seated on the table and losing himself a little in the fuzzy colors refracted therein while he waited for whatever his subconscious had already figured out to bob to the surface. It was vodka-related, he felt sure. This fraction of the realization was solid as the glass of an Absolut bottle, but the rest was a dark cloud of smoke and terror.

  Vodka-related.

  Vern can be pigheaded.

  Squib felt the blood drain from his face as he consciously joined the dots. Waxman knew the dragon’s personality. Waxman was personally acquainted with the dragon.

  Waxman is the go-between. Waxman is Renfield.

  And:

  I done walked right into the dragon’s den, more or less.

  Squib was so tired all of a sudden that he couldn’t so much as lift his head to face his doom.

  “Yep,” said Waxman, “there it is. I guess you done remembered where you seen the vodka recently. I guess you figured how I know Vern is pigheaded.”

  “I guess,” said Squib. “You is Renfield.”

  Waxman begged to differ. “I don’t see that. We is like partners. We do for each other.”

  Squib was sinking into shock. His hands dangled loose on their wrists, and all he could do was watch them. “For each other,” he said dully. “Right.”

  “Right,” said Waxman. “That’s right, ain’t it, Vern?”

  Squib heard the bathroom door open, and someone stepped into the main room.

  Three guesses who that is, thought Squib, and closed his eyes.

  VERN STRODE OUT of the bathroom angry. “Why are you talking all that shit?” he asked.

  Waxman played it innocent. “What shit? I was just jawing with the kid. Getting him relaxed.”

  Vern wasn’t buying this. “Uh-uh, Wax. You’re stirring. Stirring and planting notions is what you’re doing.”

  Angry as he was, the dragon kept his eyes on Squib. The kid seemed to be in a bit of a daze, but he had pulled that dodge before and then skipped out when the chance presented itself.

  Fool me once, thought Vern.

  “What notions am I planting?”

  Vern pointed a taloned finger at him. “‘What notions’ is it, Wax? ‘What notions’? Hows about the notion that Squib takes over your position while you’re taking the dirt nap? How about that notion?”

  Waxman grinned wide, his rows of teeth clearly visible. “Say, Highfire, that ain’t a bad idea. You come up with that on your own?”

  “Screw you,” said Vern, and then clamped Squib’s head in one massive hand, easier than a Globetrotter gripping a Spalding. “Just let me sort this a second.”

  Vern felt the kid tense in his grip and then slump as the fight went out of him. Goddamn Waxman, he thought, irritated. Stirring and planting.

  He tilted Squib’s head back and gave him the double barrels of his sulfur-laden nostrils straight in the face.

  Sleep, kid, he thought, while I sort this mess out.

  “Neat trick,” said Waxman as Squib sank immediately into gassed slumber.

  “Yeah,” said Vern. “Humans can’t take the dragon breath. Knocks ’em for six. Apparently they wake up a little dumber, but it’s hard to tell.”

  Vern tumbled Squib out of his chair and slotted his tail through the hole carved into the foam. “Okay, Wax,” he said, snagging a bottle of Absolut from the crate. “Make your case, buddy, though I’m warning you, this will be a tough sell.”

  Waxman composed himself, placing his hat on a low table beside a chintz-shaded lamp. “Tired of that lamp,” he commented while he got his ducks in a row.

  Vern took a slug of vodka straight from the bottle, which he knew would irritate the house-proud mogwai. “Good start,” he said. “Damned if I ain’t coming around already.”

  “Okay, cut the bullshit, Highfire,” said Waxman, getting to his feet. “Here’s the way I see it. We’s both in the unfortunate position of needing a go-between. I got Squib and you got me.”

  “With you so far,” said Vern.

  “The problem being that I gotta go under soon, which leaves you up the creek. Or down the creek, to be more accurate.”

  “You absolutely gotta go under? You couldn’t skip a cycle?”

  “Sure I could skip a cycle, and I’d be in a wheelchair by the spring. This old body gotta be nourished, Highfire, and soon. I been putting it off for your sake, and these bones is tired.”

  “How soon is soon, exactly?”

  “Yesterday,” said Waxman. “And for three years, maybe.”

  Vern gaped. “Three goddamn years? You ain’t just saying that?”

  “No, I ain’t just saying it,” snapped Waxman. “I got hair falling out in clumps and skin dropping off my ass. You wanna see?”

  Vern sighed. “It’s been a long day, Wax. No offense to your ass, but I don’t wanna see.”

  “So, we take the kid on,” said Waxman. “He sees to me while I’m down and takes up my duties as far as you’re concerned.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A human familiar?”

  “I ain’t no familiar, Highfire, we done had that talk.”

  “Yeah, but a human ain’t coming in at your pay grade.”

  Waxman weighed this. “Okay. A human familiar.”

  “We had human familiars before, at the eyrie. Remember how that ended up.”

  Vern let that hang over the negotiations. This was crunch point as far as he was concerned. In a thousand years it had never worked out with a human. Let Waxman argue that fact away.
/>   Waxman steepled his fingers, and Vern sensed a speech coming.

  “Vern, Lord Highfire as was. The older I gets, the more I realize that we is all just souls. All souls in different bodies. Human bodies, dragon bodies, mogwai bodies. Vessels, as such. Some souls are assholes and some ain’t. Maybe it seems like there is an inordinate amount of human assholes, but that’s just percentages. And I do believe this specimen of a boy is a good soul. He ain’t never tried nothing too shady. He looks after his momma. And he will shovel shit all the livelong day if it’s required, which it surely will be. He likes a good story, too, and you do like to deliver a story with flair.”

  Vern nodded, allowing that he did enjoy spinning a yarn, but it was an absent kind of nod as he was chewing on Waxman’s second delivery of his souls theory in one day. Could be his friend had mellowed more than Vern had realized. Maybe the signs had been there and he’d never cottoned on.

  To buy himself a breather, Vern asked, “Go back one point. You seriously need all that shit to come out of the hole smiling?”

  “If you want me perky as all hell, yessir, I surely do.”

  “Balls,” said Vern. “I ain’t no spring chicken neither, you know. The pipes get clogged.”

  “Eat some fiber,” said Waxman. “I know you is all about the protein nowadays, but that stuff will bung up a body if you ain’t hydrating.”

  “Can we swing back to the other shit? The big pile you were trying to sell me?”

  Waxman got back on track. “So ultimately what we is doing here is removing a link from the chain. Making the chain stronger.”

  “Unless the link is a lying piece of human trash who runs to the newspapers with dragon stories,” said Vern.

  “So we take steps to ensure that don’t happen,” said Waxman.

  “What steps?” asked Vern.

  “We tell him the sad truth,” said the mogwai.

  “Which sad truth is that, Wax?”

  Waxman’s black eyes glittered like water-polished stones. “The sad truth that he’s already dying.”

  SQUIB WAS AWAKE a while before he opened his eyes, which was habit rather than master planning, and he overheard a few snippets of Vern and Waxman arguing over his fate. At first he thought the TV was on somewhere and he was listening to a gangster show with a supernatural element, but pretty soon his limbic system whispered to his motor system that he better get the hell out of here, because there was a dragon having it out with some other kind of immortal being about whether or not to kill him or have him shovel shit for all eternity, which he presumed was a metaphor for something.