by Robert T. Tuohey
Mr. Green raised his gaze slightly, looking discreetly
over the gold rims of his pince-nez. The tall, thin man
in black that had just entered his shop had a nervous, indecisive
air to his movements. Mr. Green wondered, "Was this
the chap?" Well, as long experience had taught him,
one can never tell. Silently, Mr. Green folded the evening
edition of the London Times spread before him on the glass
case. Noiselessly, he pushed the day's disasters aside,
continuing all the while to observe, unseen.
With obvious hesitation, always ready to retreat back into
the safety of the Soho night, the black-garbed man moved
a step or two forward into the dark, object-crowded shop.
The man's ravenish, shoulder-length hair was raggedy and
ill-kept, but well-matched it was to the gaunt, pale countenance
it framed. Skittish, uncertain, the watery blue eyes flitted
about the room in search of help.
From his corner, cloaked in deep shadow, Mr. Green watched,
his thin smile growing with his assurance.
For the pale man, the tension was awful, like when you
needed a fix. If, indeed, the thing were here, he just wanted
to get it, and then get the hell out.
Hard, he clenched his bone-thin hands in the deep pockets
of his long, leather jacket. He swallowed, then audibly
cleared his dry throat.
"Hullo!" he said to the darkness, looking about
him. "Anyone here?"
Mr. Green had played the role many a time; by now a master
thespian, he knew his cue. Quietly, oh so quietly so as
not to startle his customer, Mr. Green stood.
"Pardon me, sir," the little bald man intoned
as he slid out from the shadows. "I did not notice
you." He bowed slightly, the faint light dully, momentarily,
reflecting off his brown pate and gold pince-nez.
"I am Thaddaeus Green, proprietor."
Vlad Vamp, to invoke the visitor's stage name, did not
bother to introduce himself, but merely stood staring nonplussed
at the grinning little man. Perhaps Clyde Popper (the legal
appellation Vlad was obliged to scrawl on record contracts,
checks, bankruptcy proceedings, and so on) had never been
much on manners. Certainly, his few months as the UK's top
Goth-punk screamer had done nothing to improve his inherently
deficient decorum.
"Uh, yeah. I heard you got a watch… " Vlad
began, intending to get right down to business, but found
himself stopped cold by something in Mr. Green's smile.
The little man's face twisted into a semblance of judicious
modesty. With a soft, pudgy hand he gestured towards a nearby
glass case. "Yes. I have many."
Vlad could feel he was being toyed with. But if the old
man wanted to bleed him dry, what could be do? Just like
the music scene, it all came down to cash.
Perhaps Mr. Green tired of the game, for he gave a low
chuckle, and, without further parley, produced from his
vest pocket a jangling set of keys. He moved away, into
the rear of the shadowy shop. Waiting in the semi-darkness,
Vlad heard locks click, hinges squeak, and boxes being bumped
aside. Presently, Mr. Green returned carefully holing, in
both hands as if an offering, a small, blood-red watch case.
He stopped a pace away from Vlad. Narrowly, he looked into
the dilated eyes of his visitor, which were keenly fixed
upon the watch case. Gently, he opened it.
"Behold!" Mr. Green said with reverence.
Just as it had been described to Vlad, so it was. The wrist
band and the watch itself were of a thick, opulent gold;
the ebony face was in-laid with tiny rubies forming an inverted
pentagram.
Vlad could feel his heart beating. This was it! Taken from
the Master's hand (some said stolen) at the very moment
of His death. What manna, what magickal strength must have
been imparted to this personal object the moment that the
Flame had been extinguished!
The occult power of such an object, properly directed,
would be more than enough to revive his dying musical career
~ it was enough for a life!
Wordlessly, as if in a dream, Vlad reached forward taking
the sacred object in his hands. At once, he turned the watch
over, straining his eyes to find the inscription which would
authenticate the piece. The Greek letters and astrological
symbols he had memorized so many years before stared back
at him.
ECCE SIGNUM: THE GREAT BEAST
In worship, Vlad clutched the watch. He looked down at
the little bald man and felt his guts wrench. No, it wouldn't
be easy - this vulture would screw him for his last pence.
But hang it all in hell, he had to have it!
"How much?" Vlad croaked.
"Six hundred and sixty six pounds, sir," Mr.
Green replied smoothly.
Vlad blinked. Had he heard right? Why, the gold alone were
worth five times that measly amount! Incredulously, the
question was repeated, and, incredibly, the same price was
re-stated.
By way of explanation, as if to allay any fear, Mr. Green
shrugged and murmured, "A sentimental figure."
Perhaps the old fool was daft. Vlad didn't give an unrighteous
damn. With a thrill, he slipped the watch onto his left
wrist, and then thrust his right hand deep into his leather
coat. True, this cash had been ear-marked for more venial
pleasures, but he dared waste no time with a credit card,
lest the decrepit codger suddenly return to his senses.
No sooner had Vlad handed the majority of his stash to
Mr. Green than he spun on his heels heading for the door.
"I've an appointment," he rapidly said, over
his shoulder.
"Do as thou wilt…" placidly quoted Mr. Green.
He watched the door close, and the black-clad figure strode
off into the even blacker Soho night.
***
Everything would be topy again, Vlad told himself. With
big magick like this backing him, he'd be unstoppable. The
record label would take him back, he'd get a new band together,
then a UK - no - a world tour …
But tomorrow. Right now, his nerves were god-awful bad.
He needed a fix. Right now.
Vlad didn't know the Soho district, but he had no time
to chase down his regular dealer (whom he owed Christ only
knew, how much money). No, he'd just cop a quick street
buy. Long years in the life had left Vlad with little real
nose, but he could smell where a deal went down a mile off.
He let his radar lead the way.
Within minutes, on an unlit, unknown street corner, Vlad
was approached.
"Score, mate?" confidentially asked the man in
the tattered blue jersey.
"Dust!" Vlad hotly whispered. "I need dust,
man!"
Blue Jersey smiled cruel, knowing a strung junkie, and
a done deal in any case, when he saw one. He darted his
eyes up and down the deserted avenue, then said, "Fifty
quid for a ride with the angel."
Vlad stuffed his right hand into his coat to retrieve the
cash, but the thin fold he encountered jolted him with a
sudden shock of recollection.
"I… I… " Vlad stammered.
But experienced street dealers are used to junkies coming
up short, and thus routinely carry cheaper, stop-gap wares.
"Twenty quid'll do ya fer meth, mate," rattled
off Blue Jersey.
Vlad gritted his teeth and swore furiously under his breath.
He hated crank, that broke junkie's high. You couldn't trust
that crap. And he was Vlad Vamp! Had a gold record, had
been the March '04 cover of Creem , and -
"Take it or bugger off, mate," grinned Blue Jersey,
making as if to step off.
- and his veins ached. Bleeding Christ, he needed that
junk! Slam it to hell, he'd take the damn meth.
He anted up, and Blue Jersey disappeared, leaving him holding
the goods.
He couldn't wait, his veins were screaming for heaven.
The street was empty and a nearby alley beckoned. Like the
old days…
But these weren't the old days. Vlad was no longer used
to the rough, kick-ass meth. And this meth was as dirty
as the Thames.
He felt the white, hot rush overtake him - but something
was wrong. His heart began to jack-hammer and every muscle
violently convulse. Vlad's face contorted in agony, and
he tried wicked hard to stand, to scream out. But no sounds
save dry gasps came from his closing throat.
And then, like a minor star, his heart exploded in his
chest.
***
Mr. Green looked down, over the dimly lit rims of his gold
pince-nez, at the familiar, heavy, gold watch, and then
up at the young man standing before him.
"What'll ya give, mate?" asked Blue Jersey.
Mr. Thaddaeus Green smiled.
"Six hundred and sixty six pounds, sir."
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