“A little. I’ve read one or two.” I didn’t tell him that my old man was a bookseller back in the States. I’d bound more books than any fifteen-year-old in the world at the time.

  “Well, that’s where this all begins, you could say. A book. A special book.”

  It started to come together—a paranoid, old, upper-class snob needed a man on the street to steal a book for his family’s collection. “Do tell,” I said.

  “I think I’ll have to tell you a story first, if you don’t mind. I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

  This was shaping up to be better than I thought. “Go ahead. I don’t mind at all.”

  And that’s when things got weird.

  3.

  He held up a book, a small black book that looked brand new, hot off the press. “Have you ever heard of a man named Allosaurus D’Ambrosere?”

  I would’ve laughed if his face hadn’t been so stony.

  Apparently, he knew that. He sighed heavily. “Yes, it’s an absurd name. His friends called him Al, which helped mitigate the ribbing. He was an adventurer of sorts, an active intellectual you might say. His father was a paleontologist who discovered the bones of an Allosaurus—that’s a dinosaur, old boy—somewhere in Utah on the very same weekend his son was born. Hence, the name. Al divided his time between New York, London, Paris, Beirut, Hong Kong, Tokyo and who knows where else. Allosaurus D’Ambrosere was a strange man with strange tastes, and I met him for the first time a decade ago.

  “You see, it all started at a party. This was in 1964, when my late wife and I still went to galas and other such nonsense. I was invited by a friend who had a tenuous connection to the host. That is not to say that this was the sort of affair I was accustomed to, however. Indeed, to my tastes back then, it was an abomination. There were many times I clutched my wife and whispered to her, ‘Now! Let’s go,’ before seeing another horrible sight that kept us entranced for a moment longer. There was performative sodomy, ritual sacrifice, and a litany of blasphemous behavior. The host, who I saw very little of at first, was a plump man with a sharp goatee and arched eyebrows. His hair was black with just the beginnings of gray. He was tall and sturdy looking and spoke with a cultured American accent—I had the immediate impression that he was the product of private schooling and money. Throughout the night, my wife and I boiled in just the sort of discomfort I’m sure he wished to inflict on us. I don’t know why we stayed, except perhaps to see where it ended. We walked from room to room to see people in the throes of coitus and violence and sometimes both at the same time. We saw men and women couple with animals. We witnessed Satanic rituals performed by men in masks.

  “As the night continued, my wife and I found the onslaught of taboo somewhat dull, tiresome even. We decided to leave. But as soon as we turned toward the door, a hand grabbed my shoulder. ‘Not leaving so soon?’ said a servant, his mouth wriggling into the wickedest of grins. He said, ‘Come now, upstairs. Al would like to see you.’

  “It was very strange for us but we came from an unbearably polite generation. So, we went with the man who took us to a great mahogany door, and behind it sat Allosaurus D’Ambrosere. My wife clenched my hand as we approached this smiling giant. He offered us a chair and closed his eyes for a long while then asked us who we were. He asked if we were interlopers, all in good spirits. He never seemed angry at all. We told him the truth, that a friend had invited us. He nodded and asked us how we liked his party. Again, we were truthful. I told him it was not to our taste, that we were humble Christians and didn’t agree with the decadence before us.

  “‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Of course, my apologies. Perhaps you and your lovely wife would be keen to take a walk with me outside and I can tell you more about my little society here.’

  “Macy and I looked to each other and considered the offer out of strained politeness. So, we followed Mr. D’Ambrosere outside and he told us about his travels. It turned out, he had much the same wanderlust as his father had, and he had the same passion for antiquity. He was a collector of sorts, not just of artifacts, but of ideas. He said that the party we attended was but an infantile display of that same curiosity. On our walk, he came across as humble, good-humored, and spirited. My wife seemed to enjoy him as much as I did. An hour before, our stomachs were turning and now we were in rapt admiration of this charismatic man with the large home and interesting friends. We smoked cigars and he invited us to return, under more conservative circumstances. We left a little later, feeling that the night had not been such a waste at all.

  “Over the coming months, Al became a good friend of mine. We met weekly and I became intertwined with his affairs. He taught Macy and myself about polyamory. Are you aware of this? It’s free love, just like all the young people in San Francisco were doing. Carnal love without attachments. Soon, we were engaging in orgies and smoking hashish. All in a couple months. It was an incredible time of my life, although now it is far gone away. I owe that to Al. He opened our minds to a lot of things. And he did so with kindness and encouragement.

  “Al had a business on the side. He was a rare book buyer and he had slowly involved me in his dealings. I had an interest in books but had no real collection—not like his, anyway. Years later, I had a hand in much of his business affairs, running them on the side while he traveled. It was not unusual for him to call me excitedly about a new find, or some strange white whale of his that he was so very close to spearing. But, in 1969, something different happened. He traveled to the West coast of the United States, I know that, and he remained there for two years. For those two years, my wife and I mourned his absence. But of course, we also moved on. We grew older and quieter—although Macy grew much quieter than I, passing away soon after—and I continued to handle his business affairs.

  “It was an evening in 1971 when I first heard from him again. The phone rang in the middle of the night and I knew instantly who it was. I answered, almost too eagerly, and there he was, my friend Al. He sounded tired, hoarse. ‘Hello, old friend,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid things have gotten very bad for me. Very bad indeed. You and I will have to play a game now. A children’s game. Hide and seek. I will hide—vanish, more like—and you will need to seek me out. Or rather, save me. Please, save me.’ He said that, he really did.”

  Dr. Gossam paused and held up the little black book. “I received this in the mail two days later. A box of twenty with instructions to sell them. The little note inside the box was the last communication I ever had with Allosaurus D’Ambrosere. I did as instructed, with one deviation—I bought a copy for myself.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of any of this. “And?”

  Dr. Gossam shrugged. “He has vanished, just as he said. For the last two years, I’ve carried out my investigation. If my friend is still alive, I want him back.”

  “He’s been kidnapped?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He paused, filling his pipe. “Do you believe in Hell?”

  “No.”

  “You won’t have to for this, but it’ll help.” He struck a match and soon the room smelled of fine tobacco. “Hell isn’t a fair description of where Al is currently, but it is as close as our imaginations can get.”

  I was starting to get weirded out by this. “What do you want me to do then?”

  “Go where I tell you and follow my instructions. Come back with Allosaurus D’Ambrosere.”

  I stared at what he held in his hands. “So, what about the book?”

  He smiled. “Yes,” he said. “The book.”

  4.

  The warehouse room with the broken glass and crushed drywall was cold and quiet. I could see why the good doctor preferred it as a meeting place. But a part of me hoped that he didn’t meet people here often. The idea of him holed up here all week bothered the shit out of me. It gave me the creeps. The thought of the upper crust commingling in places like this dragged my fantasies through the mud.

  Dr. Gossam held the book up and flipped through it. “This is The Damned Abattoir. Al discovered it in the States.”

  “Discovered. Can a book be discovered?”

  “This one can. I’ve requested information on it from a number of other booksellers and none of them knew about it. At least not yet.”

  “Who’s the author?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Did Al write it as a gag?”

  “I considered that,” said Dr. Gossam. “But reading it, it doesn’t sound like Al at all. It’s much more distinctively... American. No offense, of course. It’s just not the sort of work one would associate with Al, who wrote floridly in his letters. The Damned Abattoir is a much more, how do I say, feverish work. It’s written in a first-person style reminiscent of authors like Burroughs and Salinger. It is at times cryptic, surreal, and nightmarish.”

  “And you think the book has something to do with his disappearance? That D’Ambrosere discovered the book and then was on the run because of it?”

  “Perhaps. But I won’t know for sure until we find him. That being said, the book does have clues. Or at least, it gave me a handful of starting points.”

  “What starting points are these?”

  He waved the question away. “You won’t want to know. But even if you did, you wouldn’t understand. Let’s say this though: I have made a series of exact calculations following astral patterns based on my findings, and if you follow them precisely, you will be able to find my friend.”

  “What the fuck does that even mean?”

  Dr. Gossam thought for a moment, scratching his goatee. “It means that I am a crack-pot. It means that I am Prometheus and I am playing with dangerous, dangerous fire. It also means nothing to you, and it shouldn’t. Your job is to find D’Ambrosere and bring him back. This is a job you will be paid handsomely for. Can you do that?”

  “How much is handsomely?”

  He told me.

  Real fucking handsome.

  I blinked and I saw a silver Aston Martin, a flat in Soho. Fucking speech lessons so I could disappear behind a facade of posh cuntiness. “Okay. I’m still here. Where do I find him?”

  “In one month exactly, you’ll need to be in Hong Kong. I will give you directions from there. I have people working there that will assist you.”

  “You think D’Ambrosere is in China?”

  Dr. Gossam shook his head. “No,” he said. “But the portal is.”

  “The portal?”

  He nodded slowly, savoring my confusion. “Byron, I am willing to pay you handsomely to go where no man has gone before. Or rather, one man before you. All I’m asking is for your willingness and blind belief. It’ll do neither of us any good if you leave here with nothing but a good story and a couple hundred pounds for your time. If you must doubt what I have to say, fine. But for this plan to work, you must follow my instructions exactly. Is this something you can do?”

  I imagined a future where I might be sitting, smoking cigars, and drinking brandy with a lot of old money chaps like that. So, I tried to fit the part. I tried to sound like him. “Why yes, old boy, I believe I can.”

  He smiled. “I have two partners picked out for you.”

  “I don’t need no partners.”

  “You do if I say you do. It’s essential you have two partners.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Consider it a part of my calculations.”

  5.

  At home, I smoked and read and drank and daydreamed about black books.

  When I slept, I dreamt of rich-guy orgies—old wrinkled flesh slapping against sagging buttocks. Graying pubes being feasted upon by toothless mouths. I woke with a sizable erection I refused to touch.

  Clarence called and told me my partners had arrived. I rubbed my eyes and got out of bed on shaky legs.

  Outside, I strutted about looking my best. I had two names, a Timothy Tomlin and a Wilhelmina Dottir. Clarence gave them to me as if they were the names of horses, with a little commentary of his own. “They’re nobodies, of course. But most likely serviceable if you need discrete and capable thieves.” He said the last word as if he were mocking me, but I didn’t know why. Clarence liked to pretend we both weren’t working for the same people—bad people.

  I was back at Mikey’s in no time, hanging around one of the pool rooms in the back. Before long, I saw Clarence walk past me like he had a grandfather clock shoved up his ass. He grimaced and said, “Your friends are here.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “How’s the morning treating you?”

  Clarence shook his head and left without answering. Typical.

  Just as promised, a man and a woman arrived. Both were about the same age, late-twenties with that working-class hunger fixed in their eyes.

  “I ‘ear you’re workin’ with us,” said the woman, Wilhelmina. I was expecting a German accent, but she sounded Cockney to my ears.

  The big fella stared me down. “Little fucker, ain’t ye?”

  I looked between the two of them. The man named Tomlin was a foot taller than me with blond hair combed neatly to the side. His cut, however, was very far from neat. He looked poor as dirt. I assumed his mother or girlfriend still cut his hair. Wilhelmina was also a little taller than me, but not so much I felt threatened. She had auburn hair tucked under a beanie and a large winter coat that made her look much wider than she was.

  “Right. Have you been told the details?”

  Tomlin sneered. “Why don’t you tell us?”

  I told them the basics, that we’d be going to Hong Kong in one month to find a man with an absurd name. I left out all the occult bullshit. I did, however, tell them their cut.

  “Just to take a trip? Fucking hell. We’re in your service.”

  I picked up on Tomlin’s continued use of ‘we.’ “Are you two a couple?” I asked.

  They laughed at me and I thought I could probably take the two of them easily enough, but I let it slide. “We haven’t shagged if that’s what you mean,” said Wilhelmina. “But we have worked together on occasion.”

  They laughed more at this and I balled my fists. “Are you going to tell me or are you gonna keep laughing?”

  And then I heard Clarence, his crystalline voice cutting through their laughter. “He sells her. Or used to. As you Americans say, he’s a pimp. And she’s a whore.”

  I turned behind me, a look of surprise on my face.

  “Gossam only hires the best,” he said with a thin smile. He left the room as silently as he came.

  The two others stood there nonplussed. I expected some outrage from them, but they took his comment as purely benign.

  “Do either of you have experience in crimes beside prostitution?”

  “I don’t fuck for money anymore,” said Wilhelmina. “We hunt bigger game now.”

  “That’s right,” said Tomlin. “We work in the arts.”

  “Paintings,” she added.

  “Cat burglars.”

  “You could say,” said Tomlin. “We’ve done well for ourselves. For that price, I figure we could steal just about anything.”

  “Even a person?”

  “Sure,” said Tomlin. “Why not?” He sat down at the pool table, self-consciously rubbing his wrists, back and forth, like a nervous tic. I wasn’t sure if I’d lost them or if they were deep in thought.

  “The man’s really named after a dinosaur, isn’t he?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Wilhelmina cackled at that, but the way they looked at each other, I thought she was laughing at me.

  6.

  If it’d been my choice, I would’ve taken that month to prepare, but there was nothing to do. We didn’t know enough to do anything. I met with Dr. Gossam once more, but I was hurried out after ten minutes. He gave me my money and told me all would become clear when we reached Hong Kong. The only thing of interest he told me was this, on my way out. “Whatever happens, you must not hesitate. I need a man with a strong stomach.”

  I nodded quickly and was pushed out the door.

  For the next month, the Art Dealers and I drank and smoked and talked. Wilhelmina revealed herself to be surprisingly sober, only drinking club soda when we all got together. “Can’t risk alcohol,” she said. “Too many bad experiences.”

  Tomlin, on the other hand, drank extravagantly. He poured spirits down his gullet and filled himself to the brim, so much so that I could swear the brown liquor was oozing out of his amber eyes. He was a handsome bloke and I considered the fact that I shouldn’t be thinking that at all. So, I never said anything, but I did ask him how he started working with Wilhelmina.

  “Grew up on the same block,” he said, taking a drink. “She had something to sell and she needed protection. Always liked Wilhelmina, I did. Wasn’t no stretch to go into business together.”

  “Gets tiring after all. Sucking pricks, that is.”

  “And yet you were one of the best,” said Tomlin seriously.

  “Why’d you retire?”

  Wilhelmina rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, blowing air through the corner of her mouth. “I used to ‘ave this friend named Mary. Mary was your average London tart and she made about the same money as I did, but was about half as pretty. I honestly didn’t know how she did it. We used to joke that she had a vibrating cunt. But then she started buying fur coats and cars and I knew something was up. I knew something was entirely wrong, because there’s no way even a well-paid whore can afford fur coats and cars. We’re only human. We’d ‘ave to ‘ave a line out the door, bunch of bastards working their pricks in queue, day to night. So, I went up and asked her one night and she told she wasn’t whoring no more. In fact, she said she wouldn’t ever do it again. I asked her, ‘how?’ because honestly, no whore likes being a whore. You don’t choose it as a vocation. No little girl tells her Sunday school teacher that she wants to get fucked by a thousand men who ‘ate her for a living. So, I was all ears. Mary said to me, ‘I’m not whoring no more, I’m killing.’ She was a dumb slag for telling me that. But it gave me some ideas. The next three that Timmy brought to me, I slit their throats in their bed and emptied their wallets, all without touchin’ they pricks.”

 

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