IV

By six thirty, the overhanging clouds had emptied themselves of a second, fresh deluge, but had evidently decided not to move on. The sun was easing toward the horizon, and was painting the underside of a dense cloud cover a sullen amber. While the murky color probably wasn’t an omen, it felt to me as if it should have been. Then again, my frame of mind was already running toward the uneasy. I had several pressing matters on my mind.

First off, I wasn’t really in the breaking and entering business. Even granted the statue was stolen from my client, my stealing it back put me in the same class as Javanovik. The police would conveniently ignore any side issues and unerringly home in on me, no matter what I tried to tell them.

Secondly, I was worried that I might run into the shopkeeper. It possible that he had rooms over the shop. In the low rent district, that wasn’t uncommon. A surprise confrontation could turn nasty in any number of ways, not the least being that he might bring a gun to the festivities. Plus, frankly, the décor of the shop was already working on my nerves. I was in no way looking forward to a return visit.

In the end, I managed to distract my inner demons and set out for my destination the minute it got dark. I have a friend who’s played several of the jazz clubs where I occasionally sit in Lie most sidemen of my acquaintance, he led a spartan life. However, he did own a rattletrap of a truck that could be had for gas and a few dollars.

Luck was with me. He proved to be home with one of his periodic bad head colds, and was in no mood to haggle. Figuring half a tank would get me there and back, and that I’d have time to top off the tank in the morning, I accepted the reluctantly proffered key and headed for Javanovik’s little shop of horrors.

I played it safe and stopped half a block down the poorly lit cross street. Prior experience had taught me that it was a good idea to park far enough away from your destination that a passing beat cop wouldn’t draw a logical connection. On more than one very early adventure, I’m made that critical mistake and had ended up breakfasting at the city’s expanse when my thoroughly honorable efforts had been grossly misinterpreted.

Conversely, you should still park close enough to allow for a quick escape if needed. Given sufficient distance, the average man in blue, his head filled with rosy visions of congratulations from the higher-ups, could build up quite a head of steam in a heated pursuit.

It must have been the beat man’s night off, or maybe I’d showed up between shifts. At any rate I didn’t see a single sign of life as I strolled down the block and ducked into the deeply rutted alley behind the antique shop. After stumbling over several discarded tin cans, I finally threw up my mental arms and resorted to using my flashlight. As quiet as the area had seemed to be, who’d notice?

The back of the shop was a marked contrast to the front, being faced with dingy stucco that might once have been white but which now reminded me of the watery dregs you’d find in the bottom of a can of beans. The door was heavy wood, with no thin, helpful ornamental panels that you could pop out with a screwdriver or jimmy. Oh, well. That would have made too much noise anyway. I focused my attention on the lock.

I figured luck was on my side for once. The lock was unremarkable, probably dating back to the early ‘twenties. It also showed signs of extensive rust, so the inner workings were probably also in poor condition. Given that and the implication that there were no tricky tumblers or other nasty surprises to cope with. It should be easy to pick.

Casting an uneasy glance at the dimly visible rectangle that marked the end of the alleyway and, for some odd reason, at the overhanging roof, I set to work. It was a simple mechanism. I just had to snag an inner bolt and twist it out of the socket in the door frame. The whole operation took me all of ninety seconds, but then I was out of practice.

There was a large back room, just as I’d figured. Unfortunately, it was close-packed with piles of opened, straw-filled boxes and poorly stacked crates. Just getting inside and closing the door behind me was a bit of a struggle. There was no way around it. I’d have to risk a light if I wanted to get a clear look around.

In retrospect, I remember thinking that maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. After all, if there was anyone still in the shop, or within earshot in an overed room, they’d have responded to the clamor by now. Too, so long as I limited my search to the back room, there’d be virtually no chance of my light being visible through the wide front window.

I swept the beam around with some degree of satisfaction. So much for my fears of finding an invulnerable vault on a par with The Professor’s. The room was maybe fifteen by fifteen, and looked more like a poorly kept warehouse than a place where you’d store a treasure trove of relics. A few cobwebs festooned the corners. There was dust everywhere -- even on the crates.

That seemed kind of strange. I checked the floor. Not a bit of packing straw to be seen. It was all neatly crammed into the opened cartons. The only thing on the floor was dust, and it lay thick. Some of it had fetched up against the bottoms of the crates in inch-deep drifts. There were no footprints in the dry patina. How, I wondered, did you run a business without going into the back now and then? Especially if you kept your most valuable relics tucked away there.

Then I discovered something intriguing. In wending my way through the maze, I bumped one of the staggered piles of crates. Fortunately, that particular stack was only two boxes high, so I was able to stabilize the uppermost one before it toppled to the floor. In doing do, I got a good feel of the heft of the crate. Just to confirm my impression, I gave it a tentative shake. The crate, though it looked to be nailed tightly shut, seemed to be empty. I tried a several more crates with similar results. My earlier impression had been correct. Javanovik seemed to run a most unusual business.

I switched off the flashlight and stood in the darkness, thinking it through. Maybe the store was a front for a wholesale smuggling operation. It was possible that he took in bits of questionable merchandise and hawked them to the gullible and the wealthy, keeping the back room this way in order to mislead anyone who might enter. The fire inspector would quality and, in this neighborhood, it was likely that the cops might occasionally pass through, searching for some fleeing fugitive who might have sought refuge there. As long as nobody else was as clumsy as I was, things would probably be fine.

I liked the idea. It seemed like the most likely explanation, and I couldn’t think of any others. Still, I decided to give the back room a quick once-over before moving into the front of the shop. By this time, my nerves were decidedly on edge. I had an unpleasant history with cluttered places. There had been the Monk’s apartment which, the last time I’d visited it, had been a mess and had a contained a demonic visitor that had done its level best to kill me. Then there had been an office in a cursed casino and a bell jar of satanic dice that I’d rather not think about.

After ten minutes of nosing around, I came up with nothing. That seemed to confirm my hunch that the surrounding messy display was a sham. Okay, now I’d have to check out the sales floor. Maybe I’d missed spotting the toboda when Javanovik had shown up and distracted me. Hopefully there’d be enough light coming through the front window for me to be able to navigate. I’d use the flashlight sparingly. I cautiously edged into the main sales floor.

I counted eleven of the glass-fronted cases along the far well, and another six against the rear one. The way I saw it, I’d do best by starting at the rear and then move forward. That should at least lessen the odds of my being spotted by anyone who passed along the sidewalk who might be attracted to the assorted items in the showcase ns decide to engage in a little rubbernecking.

I had never realized there was so much ugliness in the world. Case to case, I lost count of the little horrors at twenty-nine. They ran the gamut from six inches, priced at a ‘mere’ three hundred fifty to a foot in height. The big ones were frequently more heavily detailed and started at five thousand. You’d think, with a single item commanding that kind of price, some enterprising thief would have already hit the shop. Then again, assuming they might have dropped in during business hours to scope things out, their deciding to try something safer -- like maybe a bank or two -- made complete sense.

I was on my eighth case when one of the figures on the far side of the glass caught my eyes. I could have sworn it hadn’t been there earlier, but there was the toboda, half-screened by two larger sculptures. I risked the light again, shielding it with a cupped hand, and instantly regretted the decision. The surrounding shadows of the unlit room had previously served to render the statue somewhat vague. Now I picked up on a number of unsettling little details.

If anything, the mysterious Miss or Mrs. Korvas had understated the ugliness of the toboda. It was composed of flattened discs, sure, but there was an unsettling flabbiness to those sections, as if it had just eaten, and eaten well. The material it had been carved from was also a little odd. I’d imagined it would probably be some shiny, gemlike stone but instead it had a flat, matte look. The face was something out of a nightmare. There was something wrong about the set of the jaw, and the three wicked little eyes -- which resembled tiny obsidian beads half-concealed by angular pouches of fat -- seemed to promise vengeance if an unbeliever touched it. Frankly, as a profound non-believer, I didn’t relish the idea.

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Shrugging off the feeling, I turned my attention to the dual lock. After a couple of moments’ contemplation, I decided that the upper lock would present no real problems. The second, significantly smaller keyhole was another thing. It would make manipulating a pick a lot harder. That was when I heard the faint sound of voices.

In an instant, I had the light out and was crouched as low as I could get. A minute later, a pair of silhouettes passed across the window. Apparently, a couple of locals returning from some bar, considering how unsteady they seemed to be on their feet.

I held my ungainly pose for five minutes before returning my attention to the case. As I’d figured, the main lock, for all the metal surrounding it, was no big deal. I heard the internal bolt click back in under a minute.

The smaller keyhole was another matter. For one thing, I now got a clearer look at it, and I could see the key that fit it was unusual. The slit executed a series of weird little curves and set-backs. I tried the smallest pick in my pouch, but there was no way it was going to fit inside. I’d have to look for another way in.

I crouched there, thinking. My line of thought went something like this: The damned thing was stolen goods. If Javanovik was guilty, he couldn’t very well expect anyone coming to retrieve it to be overly fastidious. Sneak thieves seldom were. Also, assuming I’d been given the true story by my client, he couldn’t very well file a complaint with the police without implicating himself in the theft.

Tucking the picks into my pocket, I fished out my pocket knife and started working around the edges of the glass front, seeing what it would take to remove it. I caught a break. The cabinet maker had run putty around the pane on both the inside and outside and then painted over it to match the surrounding metal. The paint had allowed enough air to get through to make the putty brittle. It began to flake away almost immediately. It would be a simple matter to peel enough away to work the glass loose and gain free access.

The work went fairly fast. I was two-thirds around the edge when I noticed the subtle change to the feel of the darkened antique shop. It had been as quiet as a church on a weekday up to then, but suddenly I got the impression that things had gotten even quieter. Quieter in some way that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was a little like I was suddenly working in a vacuum. At the same time, I got the distinctly unsettling impression I wasn’t alone.

Even so, I kept working at the caulking as I glanced around. With luck, even if Javanovik had detected something wrong and had come to investigate, I could get the glass free, scoop up the toboda, and make a full press run. If I moved fast enough, and stayed down low, there was a reasonable chance I might not be recognized from my earlier visit as I plowed through to the alley.

I nearly had the glass panel worked free, and I still couldn’t put my finger on what had changed. There was also no indication of anyone on the sidewalk outside, and no rattling at the door. Still, the feeling persisted, and I couldn’t help but feel vulnerable. Not that I’d have wanted the situation to devolve into violence. Toward that end, I’d left my service .45 back at the office. There were two good reasons for that, at least they’d seemed good at the time. At least both had been reasonable.

First, if things got really hairy and you happened to have a gun on you, there was a good chance you’d fall back on using it. That presented dual problems. Gunfire might be met with return fire. And, of no less concern, the police tended to take a dim view of anyone blasting away within the city limits. Add in breaking and entering, and it might have made my situation even more uncomfortable.

Secondly, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume a beat cop might be patrolling the neighborhood. If he chose to stop me on the street, it might be difficult to explain just why I was strolling the boulevard armed to the teeth. It would be even harder, if I was fleeing the scene with the stone representation of a screaming hoodoo under one arm.

I felt the glass shift microscopically. If I was in some ‘B’ film noir, I’d now produce a suction cup from my pocket and cleverly use it to effortlessly lift the pane out of the way. But, hey, I was living in the real and largely unforgiving world. I settled for pressing on the lower edge while prying at the top end with the blade of my knife.

I should have caught it as it came loose, and under normal circumstances I would have. Both hands were poised within easy reaching distance but, just at that moment, a distinctly stealthy sound came from somewhere in the darkened shop. Logically, it must have come from the back room. That troubled me. I’d closed the door behind me but, figuring I might want to make a quick exit, I hadn’t locked it. It was a rookie mistake, but there it was.

And then the glass pane abruptly pitched forward and crashed to the floor, shattering amid considerable noise. I instantly went into panic mode. I forgot about the alien sound and the possibility that if I headed out through the other room, I might run smack into Jovanovic. All I could think of at the moment was to grab the toboda and get the hell out of there before things escalated. I’d played a little football in high school, so I knew how to handle a stubborn blocker if it came to that. Go straight and low. My eyes directed at the doorway leading to the rear of the store, I reached blindly into the display case.

Evidently, in trying to grab the falling glass panel, I’d jostled the case. That was the only sane and logical reason for the two figures in the foreground to have moved together to form a grotesque barrier between myself and the toboda.

It was the hulking block of black stone on the right, the one that looked like a malicious bullfrog, that I’d run up against. Even in the dim light that filtered through the shop’s front window, I could make out the smear of blood across its bloated cheek. There was also a deep groove across the back of my hand. Strangely, I didn’t see any projections on the sculpture for me to have cut myself against.

Well, whatever. At least nobody had rushed from the other room at the sound of glass breaking, but I was wasting valuable time. I reached back into the case and rudely shoved the lava statue aside. Or I tried to. It put up quite a struggle before I managed to shift it sufficiently to grab the toboda by the top of its flattened head. The offending figure spun slightly and rocked as I withdrew my hand and the toboda. That seemed a little strange, given its previous heft, but I shrugged that off. Clutching the toboda, I turned to head back the way I’d come.

That was when things got really strange. Familiarly and painfully so. Given the eccentric and frankly disturbing stock that he traded in, I at first assumed that Javanovik had arrived and put on some weird costume to try to scare the bejabbers out of me. Maybe he figured that a burglar would be scared out of his wits long enough for him to reach a gun or club that was probably stashed behind the counter.

The point was, there was now a hunched, hairy figure squatting between me and the door to back of the shop, gently rocking back and forth as it silently regarded me. Approximately five feet tall, though it could have probably matched my six feet if it had straightened up. The face was coal black, with reddish hair framing it. This mane continually shifted, as if in a breeze, giving the impression of being composed of actual flame. The eyes were dark, and I only placed them due to yellow rims around them. And then there were teeth. Large, pointed teeth. The body seemed to be covered in brightly colored patterns, though in the subdued light I couldn’t clearly make them out.

I got the feeling it wasn’t a man in a costume when it hissed at me. The sound would have done a steam whistle proud. That could have been faked, sure, but the jaws opened further than any human beings could. That gave me a view of a prehensile blue tongue and at least two additional rows of teeth.

Clutching the toboda like it was some kind of shield, I sidled toward the front of the shop, figuring my chances of breaking through the front window were a hell of a lot better than those of getting past the thing. As I did, I tried to keep a heavy table covered in a couple of dozen dollar horrors between the thing and myself. Tables are good, take it from me. If you don’t have a gun, go for a table. They can usually stall a frontal attack for a couple of minutes. A desk had saved my bacon a few months before. Unfortunately, this time I didn’t have a bottle of sulfuric acid on me to finish the job.

The hiss transitioned into a distinctively aggressive rattling sound as it continued advancing with a peculiar rolling, waddling stride. The thing seemed unsure as to which end of the intervening table would allow it reach me sooner. I decided not to make the decision easier for it, and shifted back and forth in order to counter each new false start. It evidently wasn’t an intellectual as, any time I moved in a contrary direction, it paused for a few seconds.

That gave me some hope. If it needed time to compensate for unexpected movement on my part, it might be possible to fake it out by feinting toward one end, then taking off in the opposite direction. If I could have discarded the toboda, I’d have felt a lot better about trying to make a run for it. But, hey, if I was going to be eaten, it might as well not be for nothing.

The thing unexpectedly made a clumsy lunge forward. Evidently its answer to the problem was to come across or through the table, showing no concern for the myriad of its small cousins spread out across the top. The thick shoulders bunched and lowered in preparation for the leap, and I could have sworn its piggy little eyes glowed with anger.

Figuring it was now or never, I made my move. Keeping the toboda tucked under one arm, I crouched low to get my free shoulder under the edge of the tabletop. Then I heaved up. The table was considerably heavier than I’d figured, and at first it only took a hitch backwards. I ignored the pain as the sharp edge found the vulnerable spot below of my collarbone, but gave it another try. I tried gain, painfully aware that the shaggy vision was showing indications of recovering from its initial confusion and was about to pick a route to yours truly.

This time the trick worked. The table hinged over and slammed to the floor with a thunderous crash, turning the little figurines into shrapnel. The thing fell back a step under the bombardment, and I was off like a shot.

Even the best laid plans can develop unexpected snags, especially if there’s not a lot of planning behind them. In fleeing, I sprained my ankle stumbling over one of the fallen deities. I barely managed to skirt a second display table and make it into the darkened back room. Of course, the back door was still closed. Operating in panic mode, I lost ten precious seconds pushing when I should have been pulling.

Ignoring the stabbing pain in my ankle, I finally wrenched the door open and limped down the alley as quickly as I could. Working through my panic, I did a little quick, if disjointed, thinking. The thing had showed up as I’d laid hands on the toboda, not while I’d been stumbling around in the dark.

That suggested that either it might be something that the shopkeeper had called up to guard things, or that it was somehow tied to the specific statue. Lucius’ parallel to Capone came readily to mind. Maybe this was one of the lesser evils drawn to the toboda -- even if it was only a stone replica.

Lesser. I had to laugh. There had certainly been nothing ‘lesser’ about the hulking nightmare that had confronted me inside. Then I sobered. If it had indeed been summoned to the ugly little figuring, it might continue to dog my steps until it retrieved both it and my head.

I had only one hope-- that the thing was a protective entity summoned and bound to the shop and wouldn’t pop up again before I rid myself of the toboda and collected my fee.