Sometimes a Cigar Isn't Just a Cigar, Part Two

A half hour later we were sitting in Shank’s office.

            It was upstairs. Josh took us up, leading us through a dark, low-ceilinged room filled with leather armchairs and silver ashtray stands. Two workmen were already repairs the bullet hole in the wall.

Josh knocked, then opened the door.

Shank was on the phone. He motioned Rachel and me to sit. “No, there’s no need to send anyone. Everything’s under control. Just a misunderstanding. Thanks, commander.” He hung up with a sigh.

“Police?” I sat.

“I don’t want them barging around here.” He opened a bottle of whiskey and lifted three glasses from a drawer. “You?”

The office was small, packed with books—some of them brand-new paperbacks, others that looked hundreds of years old—along with a tall file cabinet and a heavy iron safe that could have once starred in an old Western movie. A laptop sat on the corner of the desk.

Rachel accepted a drink, although I noticed she only took half a sip. I turned it down—as much as I wanted one. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Shank?”

He downed half his drink. “The club up here—it doesn’t cost $10,000, like I said, but it’s exclusive and expensive. The cigars are—shape changers.”

Uh-oh. “They turn people into monsters?”

He groaned. “Just—different. Some people become small animals. Large ones. One woman turned into an angel for twenty minutes. An old man became his dog from childhood. It all depends on what’s in people’s minds.”

“Sounds like fun.” Rachel tilted her head. “I wonder what I’d turn into?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to speculate. “So what about the monster from the other night?”

“Sometimes it’s—not fun.” He poured more whiskey. “People have dark, ugly minds sometimes. We take precautions—that’s why Josh has his Taser. All the attendants up here have stuff to deal with problems. It hardly ever happens—nothing like the other night.”

I sat up in my chair. “The monster from the other night—it had a short black ponytail. Just like the guy carrying that box tonight.”

Shank nodded with a scowl. “Guy Turleck. He was a provisional member. You can join on a short-term basis for a reduced fee, but someone has to sponsor you for full membership.”

“What about the woman?” This came from Rachel.

“Sheila Arlow. Same deal. Just came in tonight, with Turleck.”

Rachel blinked, but said nothing.

“What did they steal?” I asked.

Another groan. “The cigars.”

“Where do they come from?” Rachel asked.

“South America. There’s a chemist there who makes it with some kind of rare plant. They take years to make, so I can’t just order another box. I’ve got to get those back.”

Uh-oh. I could see where this was going. “Are you asking me to find her?”

“I’d like to hire you. You have a good reputation in—those circles I mentioned.”

Flattery was nice. But not enough. “I can try to locate her. I won’t try to steal your box back. She has a gun.”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “I have people who can handle that. Just tell me where she is.”

I hesitated. “I may not be able to narrow it down that closely. Don’t your provisional members give you any kind of information?”

“I’ll give you what I have. You can check to see if it’s accurate, and then anything else you can do . . .”

I shifted in my chair. It’s always hard to turn down a paying client, but this seemed like an exercise in futility and disappointment. And a dangerous one.

Still, I had a chance at helping Shank if I was lucky. And not getting shot if I was careful. Plus, getting paid. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great.” He opened his drawer and pulled out a checkbook. “What should the retainer be?”

Back in the Honda Rachel watched the cars come at us. “Well, I could say that was different, but for you, that’s pretty much a normal evening.”

            “Sorry.” I slowed for a red light.

            She punched my arm. “I know what I’m getting into with you.”

            Another punch. This was almost old times. I didn’t say anything to spoil the mood.

            “He knows the woman. Sheila Arlow.” Rachel’s psychic powers are pretty good at picking up deception.

            “Huh.” I had the address, phone number, and email she’d given, and Shank had promised to send me photos from the security cameras on the main floor and up in the club. “Not a good sign when the client lies to me right off the bat.”

            “Technically he didn’t lie. He just didn’t tell us everything.”

            Us? A positive word. But I didn’t push it.

            Back at our building I parked on the street and we walked up the steps to the front door. I held the door for Rachel. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

            She winked. “Wouldn’t have missed it.”

            We waited for the elevator. Finally I gave up and asked, “Are we okay?”

            Rachel put her hands in her pockets and looked me in the eyes. “That’s up to you.”

            The elevator opened. We rode in silence. I got off at my floor. “Good night.”

            She nodded without looking at me. “Be careful.”

Sheila Arlow’s address turned out to be an shopping mall in Gary, Indiana. I found a nice bird’s-eye view of it on Google the next morning. The email I sent her using one of the alternate addresses I use came back as undeliverable, and the phone number went to a pet shop in Lombard where no one had ever heard of her.

            At least she’d used her real name, since Shank knew her. After a twenty-minute search I found that Sheila Arlow worked in a real estate office in Logan Square. The office’s website had pictures of its agents, and hers matched the security camera images Shank had emailed to me. She had degrees from the University of Michigan and Northwestern, according to her profile.

            I called the main office number, only to find out that she didn’t work on Thursdays. Her regular days were Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays, plus weekends when necessary. Did I want to leave a message? I didn’t, so I thanked the agent and hung up quickly.

            Turleck’s information was also bogus, and his name too, as far as I could tell. But he’d shown up first, and Shank didn’t know him.

            Rachel called as I was eating a sandwich for lunch. “Find out anything?”

            “I know where Sheila Arlow works but I can’t find a home address for her.” I’d spent an hour searching all kinds of specialized sites. “The other guy is a fake name. I suppose I’ll have to stake out her office, unless she’s taken the cigars and moved to Mexico or somewhere.”

            Talking about a case again, as if everything was back to normal between us, felt strange. I waited for a snarky comment.

            All she said was, “Well, call me if you need anything.” Then she hung up.

            Damn it. First she ignores me, now she was bugging me without saying anything. I didn’t want to break up, but I wouldn’t be able to stand this halfway-to-reconciliation business for very long.

            Why would she do that to me?

            For the first time in a week I felt angry.

            At first I’d been in shock. Then I tried to ignore it. We’d run into each other coming into and out of the building once or twice, said hi, and that was it. I tried not to think about her. Concentrate on my work.

            Until I’d needed her help.

            Maybe she was right. Or maybe she’d been waiting for me to call.

            Damn it. I shoved the thought aside and stabbed a quick email to Shank, telling him what I’d learned and my plan for a stakeout tomorrow. I had no idea where the cigars were—

            Except for one of them.

            Turleck’s half-smoked cigar was sealed in a plastic bag in my refrigerator. I got it, opened the bag and smelled it.

            Stale, but it still had wisps of a pungent aroma.

            I looked at it a long time. Then I found an ashtray in a drawer, and a book of matches.

            Then I called Rachel.

“Is this a good idea?” Rachel had brought her pepper spray and stun gun.

            “I just want to see what it’s like.” I wasn’t sure it was a good idea at all, but I thought maybe—possibly—smoking the cigar and doing the transformation might tell me something. About Turleck, about the cigars—anything.

            And I’d be safe with Rachel.

            She grimaced. “It turned that guy into a monster. And . . . you’re mad at me.”

            “I’m not—” I stopped, angry at myself. Denying it wouldn’t do me—or us—any good. “Yes, I’m mad at you. Really, very, honestly mad. Worse than any editor who told me I was crazy, worse than my divorce, worse than when Dudovich died—”

            She held up a hand. “Okay, you can stop—”

            “But I love you.” There. I’d said it before, but it felt different now. Like it meant something more. “I’d rather you pepper-sprayed me and shocked me and kicked me face than anyone else.”

            Rachel gave a long sigh. “It’s a deal. Fire it up.”

            Now that she’d agreed, I was nervous. I had trouble striking the first match. Rachel giggled. “Need some help?”

            “I’m fine.” I wanted her a good distance away. The second match flared.

            I stuck the cigar between my lips, lit it, and dropped the match in the ashtray, shoving my chair away from the table.

            I drew the smoke in—not enough to cough, but just to taste whatever was in the tobacco. I used to smoke cigarettes, and it came easier than I would have liked. I exhaled.

            Rachel watched me, her arms tense. “Well?”

            “Nothing yet.” I took a gulp of water. Maybe the cigar’s effects were gone. I waited.

            The cigar went out. After two minutes I lit it again and took another couple of puffs. It smelled better now. The smoke tasted like rum.

            I leaned back. “Okay. I think it’s hitting me.”

            I felt it in my chest first—my heart pounding hard and heavy. Then in my hands and feet. I looked down.

            My hands were shiny green.

            I kicked off my shoes, wondering if I should have had Rachel tie me up. My arms shook. My face itched. I leaned back, my face suddenly aching. My nose felt as if Rachel had whacked it with a two-by-four.

            Then I could smell her. Rachel’s body. Her breath. Her feet. Her hair. Her skin.

            I blinked my eyes and looked at Rachel.

            I could see every inch of her. Not X-ray vision—and yeah, I’ve seen Rachel naked, and vice versa—but it felt like seeing more of her than I ever had before. From the dark pupils inside the wide hazelnut irises of her eyes to the veins in her throat and the sharp angles of her shoulders, I could see everything. Her tense muscles, her slender fingers, every strand of her hair—

            I could hear each breath she took. The sound of her eyelashes fluttering. Her hands clenching. I could even hear her heart, beating steadily under her blue cotton shirt.

            “Uhh . . .” My lips felt strange, but I could still manage to talk. “What’s happening?”

            She laughed. I heard each syllable separately, like an orchestra in slow time. “Dude, you’re a lizard.”

            I looked at my hands again. My fingers were longer, and webbed. I pushed up my sleeves. My arms had spots all around.

            My tongue flicked out. My tongue? It was long and skinny as a whip, and it tasted the air—my empty cup of coffee, the garbage in the kitchen, the lingering smoke, and . . .

            Rachel.

            My head rocked back and forth. “I can see everything. I can smell—taste—and feel—everything.”

            “Maybe that’s what you want.” I could feel her eyes on my forehead. “To know everything.”

            Closing my eyes was hard. They wanted to stay open, taking in every sight, every color, every movement. Pulling my tongue back into my mouth . . . I felt empty and blind.

            Oh god. How long would this last? I tried to shut down all my senses, but my lizard body was trembling. I could hear Rachel’s heart beating faster, her breaths pounding my eardrums. I couldn’t even bite my lip—my teeth couldn’t reach it.

            I smelled the cigar. It had gone out again, but the tendrils of its scent filled my nostrils as I tried to resist every other sense. I tried not to breathe.

            Behind my eyelids, red and yellow sparks rose like fireflies around a campfire. At first I thought I was just pressing my eyes shut too tight, but after a moment the shapes and colors turned into pictures.

            I saw the room at Castro’s, shaking in every direction. People looking up, startled—then alarmed.

            I saw Rose Egan at her table. From the corner of my eye, I saw—me. Sitting at the bar, perplexed and clutching my drink.

            Did I really look like that?

            I felt a hand slapping my cheek. “Tom! Snap out of it!”

            Rachel. “No! Wait!” I grabbed her wrist and squeezed. Rachel yelped. “Not yet! Give me . . . a minute . . .”

            I ran out Castro’s door, grunting like an animal. The sidewalk tilted under my feet. I ran—Turleck ran—and in a few minutes I leaned down, gasping, wondering what had happened to my clothes.

            Home, I thought. He thought. Home.

            Turleck flagged down a cab, the monster still fading from his body. He jumped inside, ignoring the suspicious look from the driver in front. “Take me home,” he grunted.

            He gave an address.

I woke up on the couch. Rachel was rubbing my shoulders. “Come on, you jerk! Wake up!”

            My eyelids flickered. “I’m . . . awake.”

            “Good.” She slugged my arm. “Don’t do that again.”

            I sat up. My body felt back to normal. I couldn’t smell anything beyond my sweaty shirt. I could feel the couch under my butt, but nothing else. I could still taste the cigar in my mouth, like dried ashes under my tongue.

            I could see Rachel’s face. Nothing else. It was enough.

            “So . . .” I swung my legs to the floor. “I was a lizard?”

            “It was kind of cool.” She stood up. “Until you passed out and I had to lug you over here.”

            “Yeah.” I licked my lips. “Thanks.”

            “Are you okay?”

            I stretched my arms and looked at my hands. I took a deep breath. I touched my face, checking out my nose and mouth.

            Yeah, I was back. And I missed the feeling.

            “I can see why people pay money for that.” I grabbed a bottle of water from the coffee table. “It was—intense.”

            “Like what?” Rachel pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. “It looked—weird. What happened?”

            “I could see everything. I could feel—everything.” I looked at her. “I could hear your heart.”

            “Okayyy . . .” She scooted her chair back. “What did it say?”

            I shook my head. “I know where Turleck is. I should call Shank.”

            Rachel stood up. “Yeah. You do that.”

            “Wait!” I lurched to my feet. “I didn’t . . . I could feel you. Every part of you. And I knew you were helping me.”

            I held out a hand. After a moment, Rachel squeezed it.

            “You’re an asshole.” She slugged my shoulder.

            “And I’m mad at you.” I let her hand go. “Thank you.”

            “Yeah, well . . .” She looked over my shoulder at the door. “I’ve got to go.”

            “Sure.”

            She picked up her equipment—the stun gun and the pepper spray. Then she turned around. “You okay?”

            “Yeah.” I gulped some more water. “Thanks again.”

            Rachel grabbed my arm. “You’re a jerk.” Then she kissed me. Hard

            “Y-yeah.” I staggered but stayed on my feet. “I love you too.”

            “Call me.” Rachel left.

Shank called me back late that afternoon. “We didn’t find them.”

            Nuts. I’d called with Turleck’s address, and he’d said he’d take care of it. I’d imagined Josh and Paul descending on the place like a SWAT team, but apparently all they’d done was wait outside the apartment building until “Turleck”—whose real name turned out to be Mike Gunther—came home.  

I don’t know how they, uh, persuaded Gunther to let them search his apartment, but the fact that he didn’t actually have the cigars probably made him more willing to cooperate.

“All right.” I’d hoped this was over. I was still exhausted from my cigar experience. “If you want, I could stake out Arlow’s office tomorrow and tail her home. That’s if she hasn’t run.”

“She won’t run. She’s too stubborn.”

That was my opening to the question I had to ask: “You know her, don’t you?”

He realized what he’d said. “What makes you say that?”

“Rachel. She’s psychic.”

After a moment Shank chuckled. “I can see why you want her around. Aside from the obvious. Yeah, Sheila and I dated. It ended a few months back. I didn’t—uh, I didn’t want to mention it because, well, I was an asshole. She caught me . . . well, she caught me. You don’t need to hear the details, do you?”

Cheating seemed to be the theme for the week. “No, that’s all right. I’ll be in touch.”

So the next morning I was parked in across the street from Sheila Arlow’s real estate office, a storefront in Logan Square. The office’s website said her Friday hours were 11:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., so I got there at 10:30 to find a suitable parking spot.

I sent Rachel an email to let her know where I was. I was still doing that, even when we weren’t speaking, just as an insurance policy. She rarely responded. Today she texted back, “Watch out for lizards.”

At 11:55 Arlow walked into the office. Through the window and between the rental notices posted on it, I saw her wave to a co-worker and then disappear toward the back.

I called Shank. “She’s here.”

“How long can you stay there?”

“A few hours.” I’d handled long stakeouts before, but after four hours my concentration faded. And I’d need a real bathroom break at some point, not just a wide-necked bottle.

Shank thought for a moment. “I don’t know where she lives now. I can send someone over to watch the place for a while  if you can come back when she leaves.”

But if she left to visit a property with a client they might lose her. And if she never came back to the office we’d have to wait until next week to pick her up again—if she bothered to come back to work at all.

“No.” At least I’d packed sandwiches. “I’d better stay on her myself. I’ll call if she goes anywhere.”

“Okay.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“It’s a job.” A seven-plus hour stakeout would add a lot to the bill.

I called Rachel. “Looks like I’m stuck here for the day.”

“Poor baby.” I heard her keyboard clicking. “I’d come and sit with you, but I’ve got a website to put up.” She does graphic design. It pays better than P.I. work. “Plus, I’d rather claw my eyes out than sit in a car for eight hours.”

“I hear you.” My butt was already starting to ache.

“Call me before you do anything stupid.” She hung up.

I sipped some water, turned the radio on low to my favorite classic rock station, and leaned back, prepared for a long, boring day.

It was indeed a long, boring day.

            I ducked out at 2:00 p.m. to buy a cup of coffee and a scone at the coffee shop, but really to use the restroom. Fifteen minutes later I breathed a sigh of relief as Arlow walked a client to the door and shook his hand. She hadn’t left.

            At four o’clock a knock on my window startled me. Turleck/Gunther? Josh? But it was Rachel, holding two cups of coffee.

            I switched the radio off and unlocked the doors. “At least you can watch the door when I have to go to the bathroom again.”

            “I finished up.” She slid inside and slipped one coffee into a cupholder. “Then I got bored. Anything happening?”

            “Two hundred and thirteen bicycles have gone down the street since 10:30.” I held up a notebook with scratchmarks on it. “It’s apparently Journey Day on the radio station. Every time I hear the chorus of ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ I wait for Tony Soprano to get whacked. Sheila Arlow is inside there.” I pointed. “Probably taunting me.”

            Rachel folded her arms. “Let’s talk about it.”

            “Here?” I glanced across the street. “Now?”

            “What else have you got to do but count bicycles?” She leaned back. “I want to get past this somehow. One way or the other.”

            Yeah. “Okay.” I resisted the jerk move to say “You first.” Instead I took a deep breath.

            “It hurt.” I stared at my windshield, keeping one eye on the office door. “Hearing it from a demon? I figured it was lying. Finding out it was telling the truth? From a demon? That  . . . sucked.”

            “You’d rather hear it from me?” Her voice was quiet.

            “Would you have told me?”

            Rachel looked in her lap and didn’t answer.

            “You must have been mad at me.” I sipped the coffee she’d brought me. “For a long time.”

            “Not mad. Just . . . frustrated.” She clenched her fists. “You keep getting yourself into these situations. Yeah, you always get out us of them, but every time I wonder if it’s going to be the last, and . . .” She shook her head. “That’s not even it. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

            “It’s what I do.” I’d told her that before. It had cost me my job and my marriage. Was it going to mean losing Rachel too?

            “Not what I mean.” She tapped a finger on the armrest. “I was scared.”

            I nodded. “I get that. Vampires and witches and giant mutant chickens—”

            “Shut up.” She punched my shoulder. “We’ve been together . . . how long?”

            I tried to think back to the first time I’d met her. Helping her deal with a vampire while she was running a support group for victims of vampire attacks. “Four years. Maybe five.”

            “That’s the longest I’ve ever been with anyone.” She counted down on her fingers. “Bobby in high school, two weeks. Alex, six months, off and on. Seamus, college, nine months. Allison . . . that was different. But call it eight months. Then James, after college—”

            “I really don’t need the whole list.” For that matter, I’d been with Rachel longer than I’d been married. “What are you getting at?”

            “Don’t you get it? I’m not used to this.” She breathed a long sigh. “I may not be good at long-term relationships. I never was.”

            I flinched. “So you—decided to deal with it by having a bunch of one-night stands?”

            I regretted it as soon as I’d said it. I braved myself for a punch. Instead Rachel just lowered her head. “You asshole.”

            It hurt worse than a punch. “I just meant . . . I don’t know.”

            “I know what you meant.” Rachel hugged her arms around her chest.

            “What?”

            “You don’t know how I can love you and—do what I did.”

            I wanted to pound the dashboard. “Well . . . yeah. I don’t get it. All right? Can you explain it? Because I’d really like to—”

            “Shut up.” Rachel pointed through her window. “It’s her.”

            Damn it. I started the car.

            Sheila Arlow walked through the door, a smile on her face, looking up and down the street. Then she turned right, heading up the sidewalk, a purse swing over her shoulder.

            I managed to make the turn, getting an angry honk from an oncoming bus. I hoped Arlow didn’t have far to walk. Pretending to look for a parking space on the street wouldn’t work for long.

            A block away she unlocked a small blue Hyundai. Fortunately she was quick. The Hyundai pulled away, and I followed.

            “Call Shank.” I tossed my phone to Rachel. “Tell him we’re following his girlfriend.”

            “Girlfriend?” Rachel giggled. “I kind of thought—wait, okay, okay, here he is.” She punched the number. “One, two . . . hi, Dave! Uh, Davis, sorry. This is Rachel. I’m Tom Jurgen’s, uh, associate? You met me the other night? Yeah, that’s me. Anyway, we’re tailing that Arlow woman. I guess we’ll call you when we have something more.”

            She planted the phone on the dashboard perch. “He sounds mad.”

            Yeah. “Just let me drive.”