Magic Dude Read online

“How did you do that?” Gary asked, staring at Tyler with wide-eyed wonder.

  “More to the point, can you do it again?” Wilma asked, shoving Gary aside to put her own card into the machine.

  “I wish I could get cash out,” Tyler repeated. Nothing. Wilma gave him a look of disgust as she pulled her card free.

  “To be fair,” Gary said. “You already had a balance in there. Maybe it needs to be at zero for it to work.”

  Wilma took a step back and considered the two men. “If this is a scam, you can both knock it off.” She turned back to her car. “I’m not getting all the money out of my account just so you can roll me and steal it.”

  “We’d never do that,” Tyler protested, Gary adding his support perhaps a second later than he should.

  “Doesn’t matter anyhow,” Wilma said, pulling back out into the road. “Drinks and food are on you tonight, Gary. And there’s crying out of it because we both know damn well, you’ve got the money.”

  The Doo Duck Inn was the tavern closest to the trailer park. The pun that shone in green neon above the breeze-block structure might have attracted some custom if it had been built in the seventies. Back when the patrons were stoned enough to appreciate a good pun. With the town hard hit by the credit crunch and half the occupants out of work or waiting to be old enough to get on the unemployment line, it seemed their previous humor had left along with the good times.

  “Order me up a beer, mate,” Tyler said, slapping Gary on the shoulder. “I’m just off to make some room.”

  The bathroom reflected the poor aim of drunk men, the floor swimming with a mix of piss from the urinals and water from the sinks. Tyler slipped into a bathroom stall and locked it. He didn’t need some well-oiled patron to take exception to his glowy pink hand.

  Once seated, Tyler examined his hand carefully. The blue light overhead—a turn-off for anybody wanting to find a vein or a quick shag—cast an other-worldly glow on an other-worldly sight.

  The stone had wrapped so many loops of light around his hand and wrist, that it was embedded in his palm. Tyler slipped a fingernail as deep under the edge as he could, but it didn’t make a difference. He’d need something a lot stronger and far pointier to get the damn thing out.

  Still, if it wasn’t for the pink glow, the thing could come in handy. No way to know for sure that it had topped up Gary’s bank account, but the coincidence of it gave Tyler pause.

  “What are you?” he whispered. The stone glowed brighter momentarily, as though listening, then faded back to its previous state.

  His business finished, Tyler flushed the toilet and opened the door, peering around to ensure the room was empty before he ventured out. He ran the stone-encrusted hand under the tap, washing off the blood from his former bullet wound. No other trace of it was visible, even allowing that the stone sat where the injury had occurred.

  When he glanced at himself in the mirror, Tyler saw a cut on his forehead. The slash could have happened at any time during the gunfight, he hadn’t noticed.

  Placing his stoned hand on the gash, Tyler stared at his reflection. “Heal me,” he said, and the stone glowed, the lights pulsating through pink to orange to purple to green. When it resumed its normal state, he pulled his hand away. The cut on his forehead was gone without even the tiniest trace of scarring. The few pimples that had nestled beside his nostrils had also disappeared.

  “I’m fucking magic,” Tyler whispered. A grin spread across his face like his parents were circus clowns and their genes were showing. “I can do anything.”

  # # #

  “But you’ve always served meals,” Gary was protesting as Tyler emerged from the bathroom. “That’s the point of being an inn, init?”

  “We still serve meals,” the barman said, weariness in his voice already, though the evening had barely started. Gary could do that to a person, just being near him wore Tyler out.

  “Chips or nuts aren’t a meal, mate.”

  “There’s nachos and wedges, too, if you prefer.”

  “I don’t give a damn what we’re eating,” Wilma interjected. “Just make sure it’s hot, and it’s here soon.”

  “We should go somewhere else,” Gary grumbled under his breath.

  “Fuck off, then,” Wilma said. “But I’m not driving you, and you’re leaving the cash behind.”

  Gary slipped onto a stool at the bar with ill grace and pulled a pint close to him. “Whatever. I’ll have the chicken wings then since it’s the only thing that comes close to meat.”

  He turned as Tyler took a seat next to him. “What’ll you have?”

  “Just the beer, thanks,” Tyler said, sliding the brew closer. “Maybe a whiskey chaser, if you’re feeling generous.”

  “It’s not good to drink on an empty stomach,” the bartender said.

  “True, that. Add a bowl of wedges to the order for my friend.” Gary smiled and slid another note across the counter. The bartender picked it up and cocked his eyebrow. It took a few moments for Gary to pick up on the subtle hints but then he slid a few more across.

  “How long’s it been since you’ve shouted a round then?” Wilma asked. “Back in the eighties, judging by your price assumptions.”

  “Everything seems too expensive lately,” Gary grumbled. “Once I get done paying the trailer rent, there’s nothing left.”

  “Well, hopefully, old magic hands will see you right there.” Wilma threw an exaggerated wink Tyler’s way.

  “Maybe. To having money in Gary’s bank account!” Tyler said, raising his glass.

  “Here, here,” Gary said, swigging down the remainder of his pint.

  Tyler held the glass up to his lips, feeling the cold froth that signaled something better to come. It didn’t. He tried to sip, but nothing entered his mouth but air. He tipped the glass further up and got more of the same.

  Even when he upended it, confident that any moment cold liquid bitter with hops would pour into his mouth, nothing happened. Tyler put the glass down on the counter with a confused snarl of disappointment.

  Completely empty, yet he hadn’t drunk one drop.

  Chapter Three

  Gary turned and looked at the empty glass. “Whoa. Steady on, dude.” He clapped Tyler on the shoulder and pushed the shot of whiskey down the line.

  “Did you see that?” Tyler asked, dumbfounded. He wiped his hand over his top lip where the foam still caressed it. When he tried to lick that from his fingers, it turned into steam and floated away.

  “Another beer for me and my mate,” Gary ordered.

  Wilma waved her hand in front of Gary’s face. “What about me?”

  “Girls can’t drink as fast as boys, Wilma. It’s a scientific fact.”

  Wilma fixed her eyes fast on Gary’s face and downed the rest of her glass in one. She slammed it down on the counter, licking her lips with satisfaction.

  “Make that three, Mr. Bartender,” she said. “And I’ll have a whiskey to follow up this next one and all.”

  A worried frown crossed Gary’s face as he handed over the necessaries. Tyler clinked his glass to Wilma’s and tipped up the shot. Instead of warm whiskey, hot fire seared his upper lip.

  “Fuck’s sake,” he yelled, throwing the shot glass onto the floor.

  “Hey,” the bartender called out. “That gets added to your tab.”

  “Did you see that?” Tyler asked, pointing to his throbbing lip. “The damn whiskey caught on fire.”

  “This’ll put it out,” Gary said as he pushed another pint down the counter. “Drink it up. I wanna get out of here and go back to that ATM. It’d be good to know that one withdrawal wasn’t a fluke.”

  “What’s that?” the bartender asked as he came back. “You know of a faulty machine?”

  “It’s not the machine that’s faulty,” Wilma said, pointing at Tyler. “It’s him.”

  Tyler brought the next glass of beer up to his lips and despair washed over him as the same thing happened as before.

  “What the
hell’s going on?” Gary stared at him aghast, catching the action when he was halfway down the glass. “Why are you doing that? Waste of fine beer that is.”

  “I’m not doing nothing,” Tyler insisted. He pressed his fingers up to his dry lips, the scorching from the whiskey already healed over. “It must be the stone.”

  “Ha. That’s a good one. If you’re not going to drink it then…” Gary leaned over and helped himself to the shot glass.

  “One more,” Tyler said to the bartender. A hole was opening up in his gut, crawling with desperation. “Give me one more beer. I want to have another try.”

  He put the glass down halfway through this time, slamming it, so the remaining beer slopped up the side of the mug. His eyes misted while each cell in his body yelled out in indignation that their cravings hadn’t been satisfied.

  “No more beersies for you!” Gary reached over and slid the glass into the treasure trove in front of him. “Just a waste. Worse than buying for a woman.”

  Wilma greeted that statement with a long, fragrant burp in Gary’s face. Her breath smelled like she’d been chewing on pickled onions for the last month.

  “I’m going outside,” Tyler said. “I need some fresh air.”

  “We’ll be here waiting. Don’t you worry, mate.”

  Tyler staggered across the pub and slammed hard into the fire escape release for the back door. The three concrete steps down to the rear parking lot caught him out, and he fell, ass over tit, smacking hard onto the ground. He rolled over onto his back and cracked the hand with the stone in it against the concrete. “Damn thing. Get out of there!”

  It dropped loose and bounced on the ground twice before settling, its pale luminescence fading from pink to white.

  “Nothing but trouble,” Tyler whispered. “I need to get rid of you.”

  He picked the stone up with only his fingertips, terrified that it would lodge back into his palm if he gave it half a chance. Tyler spun in a circle, working out his options. He could put it in the dumpster, throw it away, a thought that filled him with sadness. Another means to an end would be to flush it—provided it didn’t overflow the toilet, he’d never see it again.

  Tyler watched the subtle play of colors across the stone’s surface. Sure, it stopped him from his favorite pastime, but that didn’t mean he should show such disrespect.

  Beyond the row of trucks and cars—more vehicles than there were patrons inside—Tyler saw a field with a sharp drop down to a pond. That would do nicely. What stone didn’t secretly want to be exploring the bottom of a body of water? Drawing up his arm and leg in a pitch stance remembered from high school days, Tyler threw the stone out over the pond.

  With its glow, the stone was simple to trace as it traveled through the darkness. Tyler’s gaze followed the trajectory, feeling satisfaction at how far it managed to fly just with that one pitch into the night. Then, Tyler frowned. Rather than heading in a straight line, the stone curved. As he looked on, puzzled, it tightened its bend into a semi-circle and started to head back at him.

  How the hell could a stone boomerang?

  Tyler had tried the activity once with a stick built for purpose and never managed to do the damn thing right. He pulled his hands into fists, tensing as he willed the stone’s trajectory to reverse and keep heading away. When it grew so near that there wasn’t another option, Tyler turned and tried to run.

  “Catch it, you fool! It’s headed straight at your head!”

  At the command, Tyler turned and saw the stone so close to his face that he had to reach his hand up to stop the collision. The rock socked back into his palm, fitting neatly into the slot it had so recently vacated.

  “Damn it!” Tyler shook his hand, hoping that the stone would fall out onto the ground again. A hand clutched at his shoulder.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Tyler looked up into a stranger’s face and felt a shot of pure hatred run through him. If this fool, standing there gawping, hadn’t called out the warning then the stone might have hit him. What it wouldn’t have done, however, was lodge straight back into his hand.

  “Get away from me.” The words could just as easily have been meant for the stone as the man, but it was the man that backed away.

  “Whatever,” he said, flapping his hand in dismissal. “Just trying to help but you keep being an asshole if that suits you better.”

  The man walked to a car that beeped in greeting, unlocking its doors. With one last middle-finger raise, the man reversed out of the parking lot and sped away.

  A metal handrail was mounted on the right-hand side of the steps down. Tyler walked over and smashed his hand against the curve on the corner. He did it again. Once more for good luck. Although the stone struck sparks off the metal, it stayed.

  He needed a knife.

  “Whatcha doing?” Wilma called out, staggering out through the exit door. For someone who was meant to be driving them home, she wasn’t exercising a lot of care. “Don’t hit the stone man. It’s sweet.”

  “It’s not sweet,” Tyler said, swinging a roundhouse slap against the railing one more time. “The stupid thing is stopping me from drinking.”

  “Thass not cool,” Wilma said, pointing her finger at his hand as though she was giving it a lecture. “A man’s got to be able to drink to forget his troubles. Otherwise, what’s the fun of getting into trouble in the first place?”

  “Damn straight, he does. Do you have a knife?”

  Expecting the reply to be no, Tyler watched his landlady with new respect as she leaned forward and plucked one out of the side of her boot.

  “Daddy tole me to always bring a knife, ‘cause you just never know what sickos are out there.”

  “Well, thank your daddy from me, the next time you see him.” Tyler started to force the edge of the knife between his palm and the stone.

  “I hope I won’t be where he’s at for a very long time indeed.” Wilma hung her head back, staring up at the sky.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize your dad had passed on.”

  “He ain’t. They got him for armed robbery, though. Twenty years and no one even died!”

  Tyler stared at her with a puzzled frown, unsure what the correct response was. “That sucks?”

  “Sure does.” Wilma turned and tottered back up the steps. “It sucks the big one.”

  She had her hand on the door when it exploded outward, Gary running full tilt.

  “What are you doing?” he cried out in terror. He slammed into Tyler, the knife digging into his palm and blood spurting out in a gruesome pink spray. “Don’t cut the money stone!” he continued, oblivious to the harm he’d just caused. Gary’s hands groped for the knife and tried to pry it away.

  “Get off, Gary. You’re hurting me.”

  “I’ll hurt you a lot more if you throw away our payday.”

  “You want it,” Tyler said, thrusting his hand—already healing—in Gary’s face. “You take it. I just hope you’re ready to swear off drinking because that’s what it’s demanding of me.”

  Gary looked torn, his face working through a flurry of emotions. In the end, he backed up a step, holding his hands up in the air.

  “I just think we should maybe hit up the bank a few times more before you do whatever it is you seem set on doing. No use being able to drink again if we’re all flat broke.”

  “The man has a good point,” Wilma said. She was rubbing her face where the door had hit it. “I’ve had to chase you two losers up for the rent one time too many. It’d be good for business if I didn’t have to do that again.”

  “But it’s—” Tyler waved the knife back toward the bar, trying to sum up the horrendousness of not being able to drink in a single motion. His shoulders slumped after a second in defeat.

  “Fine. Finish up your drinks here, then, and we’ll go and tap some ATMs. Then”—he pointed the knife toward each of their faces—“I’m digging this evil thing out of my hand and throwing it away.”

>   “Cool, cool.” Gary gave Tyler a reassuring shoulder hug as he mounted the steps back to the bar. “Oh, look. Food’s arrived.”

  They moved to a table, Tyler slumping in his chair while he shoveled wedges into his face as fast as they would go. When one of the other patrons gave him a funny look, he thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. The last thing he needed at the moment was more trouble.

  “Another round,” Gary announced, slamming his empty beer glass down on the table.

  “Whoop-whoop,” Wilma said, raising her hands into the air like she just didn’t care. “Sugar Daddy in da house.”

  “Come on, guys. Time to go.”

  Tyler stood and moved toward the door. When he turned to look back at Gary and Wilma, they were clinking their glasses together, not making the slightest effort to move.

  “You promised,” he said, slinking back.

  “May as well use up the tab I put on the bar,” Gary said. “That’s just sensible.”

  “Besides, you’re now our sober driver,” Wilma said. “So, I intend to get smashed.”

  Tyler slumped in his chair, eating the leftover food. At least he could get that into his mouth. “Do you think a straw would work?”

  “May as well give it a go. Garcon?” Gary snapped his fingers as though the hundred he’d laid down on the bar an hour ago had been a cool ten grand. The bartender looked up, raised his eyebrows, then went back to serving the other patrons.

  “Don’t worry.” Tyler stood up and stretched out his back. His head started to throb in time with his heartbeat, causing a rush of discomfort with every thump of his pulse. “I’ll get it.”

  “Beer and a straw, please.”

  “What are you? Some kind of weirdo?”

  The query came from a man sitting two stools down. Given that he wore a baseball cap turned around like the nineties had never moved on, Tyler didn’t think he should be pointing the finger.

  He ignored him, waiting until the bartender put the beer down and then trying to suck it up through the straw, careful not to touch the glass with any part of his body. As soon as the beer got close to his mouth, it disappeared. Not evaporating, not turning into ice or steam. Just gone.