THE EL DORADO HUSTLE ( FULL STORY)

PSY PUBLISHING

&

MATTHEW LOVECRAFT

PRESENT

A PARANORMAL CRIME CAPER

BY

K.D. KILGORE

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PROLOGUE

My name is, Marcus Ambrosias. I used to be a Wizard – until I was TURNED.

When you become a Vampire, your life is over. No one trusts you and nobody wants to work with you.

You depend on whoever’s still talking to you.

An old friend who used to work for Scotland Yard, that moonlights as a Werewolf..?

An immortal witch who wants to curse everyone that crosses her path..?

And don’t forget the dark cadre of supernatural beings from your not so recent past – if you’re desperate.

In other words, until you figure out who turned you: you’re trapped here for eternity.

THE EL DORADO HUSTLE

PART ONE

____________________________

ADAPTED FROM

THE JOURNALS

MARCUS AMBROSIUS Phd. M.D.

PART ONE

How do I define a town, a place, a particular moment in time? I’ve lived a thousand years in one hundred places and more. Each one haunting; familiar.

I always felt that there was an air of refinery to the Roaring 20’s. Everything was filthy yet managed to gleam. It was fantastic to see and hear. You wouldn’t want to taste it or smell it, though.

When you’re a vampire, your senses are heightened. I can describe sights and sounds with words. How the sunlight looks as it touches human skin or how the full moon lies fat and bright on a dark cold winter horizon, but I cannot feel it; and I cannot make you feel it.

I have a memory to be marveled at. I can tell you what scent the woman next me in a crowd in 1534 was wearing, but I cannot describe the sensory overload of what it is like for me other than to say that if you imagined life being 1000 more times intense and beautiful and scary all at the same time I would be underselling the experience.

The scuffling of feet shuffling and kicking up dust on a bustling Chicago street - that is something you must experience for yourself. The smell of oranges, almonds and vanilla wafting up from the woman next to me – I can use the right words and with our collective imaginations we can communicate...

I was human once. I was a Wizard, but I was a human Wizard – a descendent of Merlyn Ambrosias and for almost 500 years went by the name Prof. Marcus Ambrosias, Phd. Md. – that was before I was turned into a vampire. Now I live in the shadows and feed off the underbelly of the crime world.

I’ve lived with this curse for a quarter century and at times it’s served me well, but I would give anything, even my life, to be rid of this thirst for blood. It has led me to dark places and as my Witch of an ex-girlfriend, Vivian, always likes to remind me - it turned me into a real asshole. She still loves me though. She doesn’t like me much anymore – but love and people who love you are a hard commodity to come by. People who like me are easy to come by. I’m naturally charming. People who love me are not so easy to come by for the charm comes with a price.

Of course Frankie likes to remind both of us that I was still an asshole before I was turned into a vampire. I like to remind him that if it wasn’t for his wild schemes I would be holed up in a dark loft sleeping the day away like normal vampires do, instead of running lookout for street games and setting up two-bit-back alley hustles.

THE EL DORADO HUSTLE

PART TWO

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SEPTEMBER 27, 1921

DAYTIME - MICHIGAN AVE

When you’re meeting an Immortal Witch and a Werewolf it’s always best to find a public place, even if you are a Wizard turned Vampire and they are about the only friends you have and can trust. Not because of what they might do… but because of what someone might want to do to them.

I don’t get nervous often, but when it comes to staying alive things have gotten more complicated over the past two hundred years.

The sidewalk café was a perfect meeting place. I could sit with my back to the window waiting for Vivian and Frankie to show.

Frank arrived first. Everyone called him Frankie the Wolf. He was a huge hulk of a man, a Scotsman who could drink anyone under the table even when there was no moon in the sky and to his chagrin a werewolf for almost 400 years.

Frankie wasn’t as old as Viv or myself, but 400 years is a pretty good run for a guy who only has supernatural powers when there is a full moon.

Frankie sat to my left.

Lady Vivian Isabelle Winterbourne, came sashaying down the sidewalk towards us looking like Morticia Addams; long black gown and blueblack hair flowing out behind her, face half-hidden behind huge sunglasses and a large black hat that would have looked comical on anyone else.

She sat down to my right, crossed her legs and looked at Frankie and I over the tops of her gargantuan Sunglasses.

Vivian is descended from Cassondra the Witch of Greek Mythological fame and was found guilty of being a “practitioner of magic” during the Glastonbury Witch Trials.

They tried to burn her first. Being rather fresh at the business of immortality and still a little cocky about it, she simply stood, smiling, tied to the stake letting the flames rake her body as she stared out into the crowd while her clothes turned to cinders and blew away with the whirlwind of the fire as it grew, leaving her naked as the day is long.

When they tried to drown her instead, she decided to pretend to be dead and let them bury her in a shallow grave that she prayed she could at least dig herself up out of, before they finally figured out her only physical weakness and beheaded her.

The one side effect of being a Witch turned Immortal by a Vampire lover? She does not thirst for blood. She can dance in the sunlight just to tease a typical blood sucker, and has.

Her weakness is not physical, but emotional. She is a Psychic Vampire. She can read an emotion on your face or in your eyes as if it were a daily headline on the front page of - The Daily Herald.

You feel it, she feels it – and when she can, or must, she steals your gladness, your sadness, your happy little thoughts and feeds on them. Not too much, but just enough to keep herself going and not so much as to steal all of your precious little emotions and leave you a vegetable no longer good for much of anything other than lying in a hospital bed waiting to die, but she could; if she wanted to.

Viv, doesn’t need to be able to read emotions though when it comes to pushing Frankie’s buttons.

“Still chasing after myths, Frankie?” Viv said. In a crisp London accent.

“You didn’t believe Atlantis existed either until we went chasing after Blackbeard’s Treasure down in Bermuda,” I said.

“So what’s the plan here?” Frankie asked. He is a brute of a man. Good with a gun, but he was no mastermind.

“First we need to keep the guard away from the store so that Ambrose can compel him to take the day off work. Then we can send you in his place, Frankie” Viv said. “We’ll set up a street hustle and cause a scene to distract him as he’s headed into work that will give Marcus time to compel.”

“We’ll send Viv into the jewelry store to make the switch on the necklace and I’ll follow her in, posing as a Private Dick,” Marcus said.

“Why don’t you just walk into the store and compel the clerk to give you the necklace?” Frankie asked me.

“I need Viv, to verify the authenticity of the necklace. There are a lot of knock offs out there and if you want the real deal, then we need someone with a better eye for jewelry than me,” Marcus said.

“And I do have an eye for jewelry,” Viv said.

“Alright, now we’re getting somewhere,” said Frankie.

Frankie waved down the waitress and ordered a drink while I explained the rest of the plan.

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THE EL DORADO HUSTLE

PART THREE

Close out the world around you. Open your mind’s eye and see the steam rise up from the pothole covers at the corner of MICHIGAN AVE.

Hooves beat the red brick street. CLICKETY-CLACK. Whip cracks come from carriages carrying the proletariat too work. The grumbling hum of motor cars fills the busy street corner as the wealthier owners of new automobiles rush around them, with a honk or a beep of warning.

The day is overcast, humid and hot – with dark rain clouds. You don’t have to have psychic powers to see that there is rain on the horizon.

Frank starts hollering from behind his 3 metal crates stacked tall and neat with thick newspaper sheets on top. The crowd gathers round. I stand – thin, pale, hiding behind round black lenses and ignoring the tingle of the sun on my skin.

After a thousand years I’ve built an immunity to the sun, but that damn ball of fire still hurts like a bitch at the cellular level.

It’s time to get the street hustle going. I’m on the corner to Frank’s left at the makeshift milk crate table. Frank has a big hulking frame but his hands are like precision tools and the heft of them hides a deftness that could be construed as supernatural if one did not know of his penchant for all games of chance – card games in particular.

Vivian approaches all sunshine and smiles. She’s cast a Golden Glamour over herself and is as stunning as a beautiful blonde as she is as a dark brooding black haired vixen.

She says she’d like to take a turn. I’m the look out, but I’m also the shill. Frankie tosses the cards around and tells her to set her money down. She puts $5 on the card on the left and I follow her bet. We both win a fiver putting us at $10 each.

Frankie shuffles the cards around again and we each put a $10 down in the middle. We lose to Frankie but Viv is drawing a crowd, just like we planned. She takes out a $10 and asks the young man right standing front and center to put her money down on the card to the far right of the table. He does and she wins this time putting her up $5. I put $10 on the center card and loose to make it look good so I don’t get spotted as being in on it.

Frankie ups the odds, double or nothing. Viv asks the young man to go in on it with her. She’ll lay down her $20 if he’ll match and she’ll give him $50 and keep $30. She says she just needs to win $10 more dollars which is why she started playing the first place. He can have the other $10 for helping her dig herself out of the mess she’s gotten into.

It happens fast. Frankie tosses the cards around. He turns and coughs, takes his eye off the table for just a moment. I reach down and switch the position of the middle card and the card closest to me, look up wink at Viv, and the young man, and lay my $20 on the middle card. Viv follows my lead putting her $20 down and the young man follow suit with little hesitation as Frank looks back at the table and smiles. I tap twice on top of the stack of money to let Frankie and Viv know that the guard is coming.

The thing about being a look out for a street game is that it’s not the uniformed cops or the undercover cops you have to worry about. It’s the other criminals in the neighborhood that are your biggest threat.

The cops don’t want to waste time filing forms for every street hustler that sets up a game on the corner.

Frankie tosses the cards around one last time and takes the young man for his $20.

I yell, “POLICE,” and turn and walk away towards the corner where the jewelry store guard is approaching. Frankie scoops up the cards in the same hand that’s holding his cash. He stashes them inside his coat pocket and rolls up the newspaper putting it under his arm, he turns and walks off up the block away from me. Viv, turns and walks in the opposite direction of me. We go three separate ways. I walk directly toward the next corner, turn right and cross the street. The guard is coming towards me. I walk directly towards him and put a smile on my face.

“Excuse me, sir,” I say with a southern accent.

“I’m sorry I’m in a hurry,” he says.

“This will only take a minute,” I say removing my sunglasses and letting my accent drop. I put my hand on his chest and look directly into his eyes. Being compelled by a vampire leaves most humans feeling sick, so it’s good to use that to ones’ advantage.

“You don’t look like you feel well,” I say.

“I don’t look like I feel well?”

“You should take the day off and get some rest,” I say.

“I should take the day off and get some rest,” he says, then turns around and walks away, back in the direction he’d come.

I turn to my right and enter the alley. I walk halfway down the alley, stop, dropp to one knee, pull out a chunk of blue kianite from my right coat pocket. I draw a circle – laying down the sigul of transformation – when I turn to my left Frankie is standing next to me.

“You know Frank, I’ve always wondered why a werewolf would choose to be called Frankie the Wolf.”

“Throws ‘em off my tail, if you know what I mean.”

“Good one, Frank. Are you ready?”

Frankie steps inside the circle; I stand up facing him and look down at the ground.

“Maybe I should have drawn the circle a little bigger.”

“Ha, Ha,” Frank says. “Just go ahead and do it already.”

“Here take this. It’s Blue Kyanite, it will help boost the spell. Clasp it in both hands like you’re praying, which you might want to go ahead and do now.”

I hand Frankie the chunk of blue kyanite. Frankie clasps it in his hand, interlacing the fingers.
“Here we go,” I say.

Thunder bursts come loud and fast. Bolts of lightning fill the sky. Marcus steps back from the circle, puts his hand on his bowler to hold it down as the wind rises up pushing leaves and garbage into a swirling blinding storm of detritus.

One bright thick bolt strikes the top of the blue pillar sending a surge of spiraling bolts to the ground. The blue circle disappeared in an instant. Aside from a sizzle in the air the only a vampire could feel, there was no sign of lighting struck. Marcus stepped back took a small bow.

Where Frankie had been standing the guard who Marcus had sent home sick, was standing, only he was a little taller and a bit wider, other than that Frank looked just like the jewelry store guard.

Frank stepped out of the circle and headed for the alley entrance, Marcus hung back waiting for Vivian to ditch the mark and make her way to the jewelry store.

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THE EL DORADO HUSTLE

PART FOUR

ADAPTED FROM

THE CASE BOOK

OF

VICTORIA ISABELLE WINTERBOURNE

OCTOBER 13, 1921

DAYTIME - MICHIGAN AVE

I enter the jewelry store and see the Fat Man behind the counter. He’s an open book – a mess of emotions. His life is chaos and he’s going in so many directions at once, he doesn’t even bother to put up an emotional barrier, let alone a psychic defense.

He is a Big Man. He looks like a Pig Man. Fat, sausage shaped fingers, pudgy red cheeks and a bulbous red nose – blood vessels broken from too much – is it Scotch..? No, he’s a Brandy man.

It doesn’t take the heightened senses of a vampire to smell the booze, tobacco and sweat of this Fat, Little Man, standing sentry over millions of dollars in baubles, jewels and diamonds.

I walk straight to the back of the store, linger a moment and then move right, down the case and to the corner of the counter where I stop. I turn and look at the Fat Man, in his cheap brown cotton haberdashers’ suit.

A man comes into the store behind me. He turns to the left to peruse the tall cabinets on the opposite wall. Of course, no one pays attention to a man in a jewelry store which means I have the clerk’s full attention.

“Darling,” I say, watching his eyes linger on the low cut bust line of my dress.

It’s not overboard, but it is burgundy red and just sexy enough to turn a Fat Man’s eye my way, but not so much as to draw any attention going in or out of the little jewelry store.

“Madam,” the Fat Man replies, meeting my gaze; slow and greedy.

I clean up the cockney in my usually brash British accent and lay it on him Prim & Proper.

“Mi’ Lady, if you would please,” I say.

It’s always easy to put a man who works high-end retail off balance by suggesting that you not only have taste and class, but also the money to back it up. I look down at the red crushed velvet lined case for a moment or two, not wanting to appear too eager.

I move down the counter towards the door where the Fat Man was standing when I arrived. He follows me looking casual as he takes the watch from his coat pocket and pretends to check the time. He clicks the watch closed.

I stop, look down and make a sound that could be mistaken for a purr as my eyes fall upon a diamond encrusted Moon Stone necklace that is sparkling and shining bright as the colors of the rainbow.

The centerpiece contains a flat round rose tinted Moon Stone surrounded by 5 pink diamonds all held in place by a gold setting that could be unclasped from the 4-string set of pearls which could then be worn as bracelets.

The diamond outlay around the Moon Stone would mean nothing. To an immortal Witch with a penchant for Occult Artifacts that sparkle and shine – it had a presence – like it had its own soul.

“Said to have been a gift from Rasputin to Princess Irena Alexandrovia of Russia – cousin to Czar Nicholas (II), and wife to the wealthiest man in Imperial Russia, Prince Felix Yussopov – suspected of murdering the Russian Mystic, Grigori Rasputin, in 1916,” the Fat man says, “She was said to have been able to hear the voice of god when she wore it.”

The history Frankie had given me was far more interesting. The necklace being a gift from Zeus to the Witch Cierce – an enchanted necklace the when worn guided one to a city that was beautiful in a way that only a god could comprehend. One of the ancient Witch’s descendants lost the necklace during the French Revolution and it made it into the hands of Rasputin, during World War I, who went mad after wearing it.

It’s always best, however, to play dumb for the sake of jewelers, retailers and Fat Men. It is also always good form to let men feel as though they are the sole repository and keepers of all valuable knowledge. Any Jewel Thief worth their weight in precious stones knows the story of Rasputin and wish to educate the retailer. Not being in a hurry to let the Fat Man in on the deeper history and expose my penchant for purloined priceless pieces of paranormal artifacts.

The Fat Man takes the necklace from its place in the crushed red velvet case and places it on the green felt mat to my left.

“May I try it on?” I ask.

“I assume, Mi’ Lady, has suitable funds on her person to cover any unexpected damages?”

It’s also good practice to walk away from Fat Men who think that you need jewelry more than they need a sales commission, so I turned my Prim & Proper, up a notch and took a chance.

“MY… DEAR… SIR!!!” I say – pronouncing every word and syllable with as much disdain as I can muster for a sad Fat Man. “I… HAVE… NEVER!!!”

“MADAM!” the, Fat Man says, flustered.

“Do you know who I am!?” I look directly into his beady little eyes, tucked away between folds of flesh. “I am Lady Eleonore Rigby the 3rd wife to the 3rd Earl of Elerby - cousin to the Second wife of Henry the Eight’s 2nd Son Roderick the Great!”

There are benefits to being a Witch turned Immortal by a Vampire. A true Vampire like Marcus can compel most, if not all humans to do anything he tells them to. No moral stop gap – no ethical issues.

Due to the unusual nature of my condition – I am not able to compel people, but I have acquired the ability to cast a psychic glamour that makes people susceptible to my emotional suggestions. It’s much like feeding off a person’s emotions, and a little bit like what people might imagine hypnosis to be.

The Fat Man becomes flustered and befuddled just long enough, trapped in my gaze. I make the switch. I slip the original necklace into my purse and place an imitation of the necklace on the green felt mat.

The man in the back of the shop, turns towards us, takes three large strides and steps in to interrupt.

It’s Marcus, but he looks every bit the Pinkerton Man or Police Dick.

“Pahdon me sur,” Marcus says, to the Fat Man behind the counter in his best Southern accent. “Ma’am, please do me a fava and empty out yer purse.”

It’s easy to fool people in just about any city if you can pull of an unfamiliar and believable accent. Marcus had the talent and the charm to pull it off. He reached into my handbag and pulls out the real necklace.
I believe this is yours, sur,” Marcus says taking up the fake up off the mat and placing the original back down on the counter.

I gave Marcus and the Fat Man a look of incredulity and utter disdain.

“You think that I am a thief!?’ I say, looking Marcus in the eyes and trying not to smile.

“I don’t think you are. I watched you make that switch. It was slick, but not slick enough,” Marcus pulls a Blank Badge from his inner coat pocket and holds it up for the Fat Man to see. “Jordan Wintergreen, FBI – I picked up the case in Boston, but she’s been pulling this scam all across the country.”

A Blank Badge makes people see any form of ID that is suggested to them. There’s a bit of mesmerism that occurs and while the Fat Man was inspecting the ID, I switched the necklace out again with a second fake that was still stashed in my bag.

“I do apologize for the inconvenience, sur. I’m going to need to confer with the guard outside for a moment and have him accompany me to the police station,” Marcus says. “Ma’am please place your hands out in front of you. I will do you the favor of not perp-walking you out of here so that everyone can see.”

I turn and face Marcus, noting a small glimmer of joy in his eyes as he slaps the cuffs around my wrists, He takes off his over coat and drapes it over my hands.

“Once again, suh, I appreciate your understanding in this matter. You’ve helped a lot of people,” Marcus says as we turn and walk out the front door.

We stop and confer with Frankie, who still looks like the spitting image of the guard that Marcus sent home and we all walk off down the street and around the corner.

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EPILOGUE

ADAPTED FROM

THE CASE FILES

OF

FRANK DE'WOLFE

OCTOBER 17, 1921

EVENING - PENTHOUSE

The job went smooth, but we still put a few days between us and the jewel heist before meeting up in Mikey’s penthouse. We’d had an arrangement.

Vivian would hold the necklace, I’d hold onto the last half of the money for the job, and Marcus would make sure that, Viv and I both showed up for the exchange. If one of both of us ditched on the meeting Marcus had promised to hunt the other down and he was after all the most honest and trustworthy con man I’d ever known.

“So, you’ve got the necklace,” Vivian, said handing me the jewels. “You don’t really believe that it will lead you to some hidden City of Gold, do you?”

“I don’t know, but I’m being paid a lot of money to get it,” I said, pulling two stacks of bills from my inner coat pocket and setting one down in from of Vivian and the other in front of Michael.

“Forget about me,” I said. “What’s next for the great Marcus Ambrose, Daemon Hunter Extraordinaire, etc… etc… etc...?”

“You know me, Frank,” Marcus said, his perfectly non-distinqisable Anglo-Saxon accent was back in action. “I’m going to find out who turned me into this despicable blood-thirsty shadow of a self, even if it takes 1000 years. I’ll hunt down ever Ripper that I can find even if I have to track down, Old Jack, himself. I will find them all, kill them and finally free myself from this horrid blood-lust, even if I have to die doing. Hell, I’m half way there already, right, Frankie?”

“You are one spooky guy,” I said. “You’re by and far the nicest spook I know, but you one creepy son of a bitch.”

“And what about you Viv?” Frankie asked.

“Honestly, Frank, you don’t think I’d let, Marcus run off and get himself in trouble do you? I’ll tag along with him. See what kind of Pretties, I can pick up along the way. Cast a few spells, break a few curses. See how long it takes, before Marcus succumbs to my natural charms and enchantments.” Viv said.

I had what I wanted and it was time to hit the road. We said our farewells. I left the dark penthouse behind and headed down to the ground floor.

Back to the job. Back the grind, but it was never long before we all ended up back together for a grift or an adventure. I smiled as I hit the lobby, and saw the bright light of day and the bustle of the crowd out on the sidewalk. I headed out into the big bad world, ready to finish up this job and see what would come my way next.

~ THE END ~