Jon Wesick

Cathay Town

 

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I was staring at my unpaid bills over a cup of rotgut mead when a rock crashed through my window. It was gray, probably limestone but definitely not basalt or granite and had a spiral fossil of a trilobite on the back. I looked outside to see who the culprit could be but saw only a motley group of pterodactyls and stegosaurus carrying picket signs to protest my former career as a creator deity.

 

A big guy burst through the door. He carried a snub-nosed lightning bolt, had a complexion of burnished bronze, and wore the kind of toga you could only get at one of those boutique shops on Mt. Olympus. He’d brought gloom and the smell of ozone into my office with him as if he lugged a personal thunder cloud with him. I didn’t like the intruder but shooting him was out of the questions. My jade scarab and my last amphora of mead were in the line of fire.

 

“You Tiamat?” he said.

 

 “Who’s asking?” Even though my bank account hadn’t seen a spare drachma since that asteroid had ruined the dinosaurs’ day, I hated getting pushed around and despised authority figures or anyone who lords it over others. I’m a stone-cold son of a bitch who can love nothing and no one but justice.

 

“You can call me Allfather, Lord of Thunder, Bearer of the Aegis, and Keeper of Oaths.”

 

“Well Mr. Allfather, I don’t like people pointing lightning bolts at me so either put your piece away or scram!”

 

His expression could have soured all the milk from Endymion’s flock. He stowed the lightning bolt in his shoulder holster.

 

“I thought you were a dame,” he said. 

 

This was shaping up to be a bad day. First, he threatened me with a gun and now he was subjecting me to transphobia.

 

“Gender is a social construct,” I replied, “but you aren’t here to discuss my genitals, real or imagined. Spill it!”

 

“Someone’s trying to kill me.” The Allfather collapsed into a chair. All the false bravado drained from his face leaving only the look of a boy scared of the basilisk hiding under the bed.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“My sisters and brothers disappeared one by one. When I asked my father, Cronus, for help, he just belched.”

 

Was he telling the truth? It didn’t much matter. I had all I needed to solve the case - a hat, a gun, and a bad attitude. He had the look of someone important and if I played my cards right, I could make a killing.

 

“My rates are two-hundred drachmas a day,” I said, “plus expenses.” 

 

*

 

I rang the doorbell and waited. In advance of my visit to Cronus’ mansion, I’d put on my best toga and polished my sandals but I had no confidence my wardrobe would pass muster up in the hills.

 

“May I help you?” The butler who answered had a long nose that seemed to match the condescension in his voice.

 

“Name’s Tiamat.” I handed him my card. “I’m a private investigator here to see Mr. Cronus.”

 

“This way, sir.” The butler led me inside.

 

Somehow the word must have gotten around, which was suspicious because rich people usually sick a chimera on me whenever I get within a league of their homes.

 

“Excuse me, sir,” the butler said to Cronus. “Mr. Tiamat is here to see you. He’s a private investigator.”

 

When you’re as powerful as Cronus, I guess you can get away dressing like Diogenes. His stomach dwarfed the rest of his body even though he was twice the size of a mortal.

 

“Ah Tiamat, I’ve been expecting you. I’m sorry I can’t offer you lunch because our larder is empty. All I’ve had to eat, today, is a few ladyfingers.”

 

I doubted that. If a guy with a study bigger than Agamemnon’s palace couldn’t rustle up some olives and a slice of pita, my name was Epimetheus. 

 

“So, you know why I’m here?” I took a seat.

 

“About the murders, you mean?” Cronus’ eyes were the color of the wine-dark sea but were they the eyes of a killer?

 

“Anything you can tell me would help,” I said.

 

“A dreadful business.” Cronus poured me a cup of mead along with one for himself. “I wish I’d acted sooner. Poseidon has always been a jealous type but I never suspected he’d kill his brothers and sisters. When Zeus came to me with his suspicions, I kept quiet. If he learned the truth, he’d take his wrath out on his brother. Even though Poseidon is a killer, I couldn’t stand to lose another child.” Cronus took my hands. “Whatever Zeus is paying you; I’ll double it! Help me find Poseidon so I can put him somewhere he can get the help he needs.”

 

“Where do I start?”

 

“Poseidon used to date a nereid named Dolores.” Cronus stood and walked to the bookshelf. “She lives on Alameda Street. Geoffrey will give you her address.” 

 

*

 

The doorbell sounded and I waited for an answer. Dolores’ cabana was at the end of a cul-de-sac surrounded by bronze merchants and falafel stands. A welcome mat with an image of Rhea lay on the step and the air smelled of burning metal. Nobody answered and I turned to leave. Was she at work or maybe on the lam with Poseidon?

 

On the walk back to my chariot, I approached two guys in wide-lapeled togas. The first had big shoulders and a boxer’s nose. The second was wiry and had a scar running from his earlobe to the corner of his mouth. I nodded. Before I could react, the gorilla had my arms cinched behind my back. The scarred man flicked open a butterfly gladius and waved the blade in front of my face.

 

“You’re a little too nosy for your own good, pal.” He was so close I could smell the yogurt and garlic on his breath. “Know what happens to nosy guys?” He stuck the blade in my nostril and sliced it open. “They lose their nose. Next time, I’ll cut the whole thing off.”

 

*

 

My nose bandaged in penicillium-soaked linen, I returned to Dolores’ cabana after midnight and jimmied the lock. It was dark in the hallway. After determining the only sounds came from local metallurgists beating ploughshares into swords, I lit a portable oil lamp. Images of porpoises cavorting with naked women decorated the walls. It would have cost a pretty drachma to hire an artist of that skill, something a single girl couldn’t afford on a nereid’s salary.  A half-eaten spanakopita lay on the kitchen table. It was cold but that hadn’t spoiled the ants’ appetites. 

 

I opened the door to the bathroom and found her. Her naked body floated in the bath. Her breath was still and I regretted not having two coins to place on her eyelids to pay Charon’s fare. Something glittered on her cheek. I knelt closer and saw that it was a fish scale. I retrieved it and stowed it in my pocket.

 

“Well! Well! Well! What do we have here?” Torch light filled the room.

 

A stocky man in a wide brimmed hat stood with his hand hitched in his belt. Three uniformed officers in blue togas backed him up.

 

“Hello, Bradshaw,” I said.

 

“That’s Lieutenant Bradshaw to you, Tiamat!”

 

“Congratulations on your promotion. Whose laurels did you have to kiss to get those butter bars?”

 

“Why, I ought to take you downtown! What are you doing here with the dead girl?”

 

“Divorce case.” I wasn’t going to spill my guts until I knew whose side the flatfoots were on.

 

“Divorce case, my ass!” The skin under Bradshaw’s eye twitched. “If I know you, you’re working some private angle. Care to fill me in on the details?”

 

“Agamemnon’s got a jealous wife. What can I say? If you want to brace Clytemnestra, go right ahead.” 

 

“Get out of here!” Bradshaw stepped out of my way. “And Tiamat, don’t leave town.”

 

“Hey Tiamat,” one of the officers said. “Stray asteroid hit you in the nose?”

 

There was a time when I could have repaid such insolence by turning into a dragon and ripping the offender apart. I turned my back and walked away.

 

*

 

“Master Pythagoras will see you now.” My guide led me through a courtyard where a shirtless man lay strapped to a whipping post. Hundreds of flies dined on the welts on his back.

 

“What’s with him?” I asked.

 

“He dared suggest numbers can be irrational.” The guide showed me into a sweltering hut where a bearded man drew triangles in the dirt.

 

“Could you tell me what this is?” I handed him the fish scale I’d found on Dolores’ corpse.

 

In my experience philosophers are about as allergic to bathing as Achilles’ heel is to arrows but any discussion of the subject would take hours and I didn’t have the time.

 

“Siren’s scale.” Pythagoras handed it back to me.

 

“Where can I find this siren?”

 

“Between Scylla and Charybdis.”

 

*

 

I brought a lunch of olives and feta to a park bench overlooking the Aegean to contemplate my next move. It was pleasant watching the swans and triremes on the water. I bit into an olive and cracked a tooth on the pit.

 

The legend of Scylla and Charybdis got overblown. In reality, they were two parallel streets in Athens’ Cathay town. The phrase originally meant surviving Monday’s all you can eat sushi special at Menelaus’ Golden Wok. 

 

The case began to make sense. Instead of catching the first ferry to Crete, Poseidon hid out at the Golden Wok while trying to persuade his girlfriend to flee with him. He left the two henchmen watching her house. Me showing up convinced him that Dolores was ratting him out to the cops so he had her killed by a siren I’d probably find floating in a fish tank at the Golden Wok. If I acted quickly, I might catch Poseidon at the restaurant but I couldn’t take on his henchmen alone. For that I’d need backup.

 

 One of the swans waddled over and pecked at the bench to get my attention. He was larger than the rest and his feathers seemed to emit an ethereal light.

 

“Psst! Hey, Tiamat,” he said.

 

“Zeus, is that you?”

 

“Don’t use that name! There are spies everywhere.” The Allfather’s altered anatomy made the pitch of his voice comical much like that of Dionysius Duck. “How’s the investigation going?”

 

“I’m following a strong lead. It should be wrapped up in a few days.”

 

“Okay. See the bird’s nest in that olive tree? You’ll find an IOU underneath it. The National Bank of Thebes has a no avian policy so I can’t withdraw money from my account. Once things return to normal, I’ll pay you in full.”

 

Did I have any qualms about taking his father’s money, too? Not really. The first thing you learn in the private-eye game is to take a drachma wherever you can find it.

 

*

 

Cronus was talking to Bradshaw and a phalanx of blue-togaed officers when I arrived outside the Golden Wok.

 

“If you help me get my son back safely,” he said, “I’ll put in a good word with Mayor Tantalus.”

 

Bradshaw’s mouth was set with determination but his eye’s glittered with self-interest. I knew how his mind worked. He was imaging himself behind the chief of police’s desk. How could he lose? He had a dozen officers armed with swords, shields, and javelins.

 

A broad with the body of a cobra burst out of the restaurant carrying a woozy Poseidon over her shoulder. His addiction to lotus pods had left his trident standing at half-mast. They were a few score steps from a waiting chariot drawn by two dappled horses.

 

“I want to see my son!” Cronus grabbed the siren’s arm to stop her. 

 

 Bradshaw and the boys in blue stood paralyzed, unsure whether to intervene in the family drama.

 

“Get your hands off of me!” the siren screamed. “I’ll never let you take him.”

 

“He’s my son and I have the right!” Cronus slapped her.

 

The two struggled until the siren got hold of Poseidon’s trident and thrust it into Cronus’ shoulder. The sight of a rich god’s blood shocked Bradshaw out of his indecision.

 

“Stop right there!” he shouted. “You’re under arrest.”

 

But the siren didn’t stop. She loaded Poseidon into the chariot and snapped the reins over the two horses.

For a moment, it looked like she’d make it. Then the boys in blue let fly with their javelins and a lucky shot sunk between the siren’s shoulder blades. Despite his wound, Cronus made it to the dying woman before her body stopped twitching. In a feat, I could hardly believe, he swallowed her whole and used the javelin as a toothpick.

 

“Come, my son.” Cronus took the reins. “I’m taking you home. You’re late for lunch.”

 

As Cronus drove Poseidon away, I realized he’d played me for a sap.

 

“Stop them!” I grabbed Bradshaw’s arm. “Poseidon’s not the killer. It was Cronus. He’s been eating his children all along.”

 

“Are you saying that siren didn’t kill Dolores?” Bradshaw freed his arm from my grip.

 

“No, she killed Dolores but only to protect Poseidon.”

 

“Then the case is closed.” Bradshaw’s face was a mask of skeptical marble.

 

“Do something,” I said, “or Poseidon will die!”

 

“Forget it, Tiamat.” Bradshaw laid a hand on my shoulder. “It’s Cathay Town.”

 

Jon Wesick is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He’s published hundreds of poems and stories in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, Pearl, Pirene’s Fountain, Slipstream, Space and Time, and Tales of the Talisman. His most recent books are The Shaman in the Library and The Prague Deception. http://jonwesick.com Bienvenue a la Danse, Jon. 

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