Paper Streets
To Tyler
Chapter 1 – Julian
Julian checked his watch. The Devil was late again.
Julian removed his pocket square and polished the
watch’s face. It was a bronze monstrosity, ruefully gothic, and conspicuous as
a bare phallus. Age had given the glass an opaque cataract, and its long silver
chain was loathsome and cruel. Julian had wagered Cornelius Cubbins he could
probably beat a street urchin to death with it, if pressed to do so. Cubbins
had politely declined the bet.
Julian replaced the watch to his inside pocket,
and refolded his pocket square. He sipped delicately at his tea, which was much
too hot, and pricked the tip of his tongue like an iron. It was weak, and black
as sin. Blood orange pekoe, he speculated.
A grandfather clock rang in the hallway. Julian
kept it several minutes slow, because he hated it. And he liked when things he
hated were wrong. He otherwise kept it wound, and in good working order.
The Devil arrived presently.
“I’m late,”
the Devil insisted.
“Are you?” Julian replied. He removed his pocket
watch and glanced at it.
“You can’t
imagine my remorse.”
“Not at all,” Julian retorted, dismissing the
notion with a limp wave. “Have a seat. The tea is brewed.”
The Devil adjusted his cuffs as he sat, the scent
of lavender and brimstone pluming about him. He reached a charcoal hand into
his jacket. “Mind if I smoke?”
“I would be loath to protest, if you would allow
me the same.”
The devil produced a slender wormwood pipe from
his pocket. Julian likewise took out a Calabash pipe from a small wooden box on
the table. He and the Devil sat quietly together, preparing their tobacco. The
Devil licked the tip of his finger, setting it alight, which Julian accepted
gratefully for his pipe. When the smoke hung like a sullen vapour between them,
they spoke again.
“So what brings you out Charleston’s way?” Julian
bit down on his pipe, and picked up his tea cup and saucer with both hands. He
had no intention of drinking it. “Not looking for real estate, I imagine. The
taxes here are hellish.”
The Devil smiled. For a moment he sat and watched
Julian, his eyes flickering like two smoldering embers in a vast darkness. His
garrote wire hair was pulled back into a pony-flail. His cufflinks dazzled,
made from human teeth.
“I have a
new wager for you,” the Devil finally said, dispensing with formalities.
Each word he spoke clung to a wisp of black, heavy smoke. “An irresistible one, I believe.”
“Kind of you, but no,” Julian said with a kind of
sigh. He placed the tea saucer down. “Forgive my candour, but I’m certain
you’ll agree that the game is rather passé now. You offer terrible odds, and
you’re something of a sore loser. No offense.”
“None
taken.”
Julian took another drag, then continued, “I am
more than prepared to make a deal with the Devil, but I shan’t play dice with
him.”
“Not even
for her?”
Julian paused. He lowered his pipe and stared, in
spite of himself. The words hung in the air, fluttering about the room like a trapped
starling.
“That’s… that’s rather crass of you, actually, if
you’re lying,” Julian clamped his lips shut, and licked the front of his teeth.
He would have traded a limb for a better poker face just then.
“I tell the
truth when it suits me,” the Devil nodded.
Julian swallowed. He puffed and puffed and puffed
at his pipe, until he wore a shroud of lazy, gray smoke. “Forgive my
scepticism, but Death’s a stand up chap. Cautious, I should say. He would never
risk to lose—”
“But he
would trade. Now wouldn’t he?”
Yes he would. “Hmm.”
“Well?”
Julian splayed his fingers and sat back in his
chair. He let himself slouch, hunkering into the bastion of leather. He puffed
some more, allowing the silence to become awkward.
In the hallway, the grandfather clock struck once
on the half hour.
As though reacting on cue, Julian jumped up out of
his seat and crossed the room with a nimble stride. In a single gesture, he
extracted a tumbler from a liquor cabinet and filled it with two fingers of
scotch over ice. Where the ice had come from was anyone’s guess. “What are the
stakes then? Let’s get this all out in the open.”
“Charleston.”
“All of it? For her?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Generous,” Julian returned to his seat. He struck
a match to relight his pipe. He put the match out with a long sweeping shake.
“Alright, done. What’s the bet?”
“A minor
task. A matter of infrastructure, mostly. A test to see how well you know your
fair city.” The Devil extended his hand, offering a shake. “You’ll have six days to solve a small
puzzle I came across on my meanderings. Do we have a deal?”
“How many days did it take YOU to solve?”
“Seven.”
Julian took an aggressive sip from his scotch,
raking the ancient beverage over the ice. No other information. Just an offer –
take it or leave it.
“Well, as they say, the Devil’s in the details,”
Julian reached across and sealed his fate with a handshake. “Looks like you
were after real estate after all.”
“You’ll
receive a package tomorrow morning. Break the seal, and the game begins. Best
of luck.” And with that, the Devil was gone. His tea sat untouched on the
gateleg.
Julian finished his drink before alerting his
secretary.
“Carol?” Julian called, reconstituting his pipe
and lighting it.
Carol walked into the room, her heels clicking in
a soft rhythm. She was dressed in black, a satin sash about her throat, and her
autumn hair lost beneath a funeral veil. Appropriate attire, in polite
deference to the Prince of Darkness.
“Yes Mr. Mayor?” her lilting accent poorly hid her
playful irony. She already knew something was up.
“Take note. I’ve bet the city on a gamble with the
Devil.”
“Again,
sir?” The corners of her mouth curved ever
so slightly heavenward. “It is an
election year, you recall?”
“Is it?” Julian reclined back, shrugging his shoulders
in hapless apology. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come up.”
“Alright sir. I’ll begin the usual precautions.”
She jotted a few notes onto a thin tablet. “Shall I clear your calendar?”
“Yes, please. Except – keep my lunch with Death on
Thursday.”
“Very good sir. I’ll let you know when City
Council hears the news.”
“Thanks, you’re a dear.”
Carol clicked softly from the room. Mayor Julian
Trenton smoked. He smiled. He smoked and he frowned. The grandfather clock rang
twelve times, several minutes past the hour.
And the words still fluttered about the room, like
a trapped starling.
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