Austin Wyrd

  Austin Wyrd

  Steve Curry

  Contents

  Wyrd:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Interesting tidbits Index

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Steve Curry

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  Steve Curry, Author

  2516 41st St

  Lubbock, TX 79413

  https://www.facebook.com/MyWyrdMuse/

  https://MyWyrd.wordpress.com

  Created with Vellum

  I owe thanks to some important people in this process. I can’t thank my old buddy Peanut Pranger enough for walking an old dog through the new tricks of web design.“Ducky” took a first swipe at editing and correcting my work. And my gamer buddies the Crows were kind enough to sacrifice a few of their members and family members to beta reading.

  I saved the very best for last.

  To all of my friends and family that pushed me into believing I was capable of this. Even more thanks go to Cindy. I never would have finished this without your constant encouragement and the occasional eye-roll at my insecurity.

  Wyrd:

  an old Germanic and Viking age concept of fate or destiny shaped in part by free will but also by complex interactions of universal necessity and a cosmos beyond the comprehension of most mortals.

  1

  If you take a man’s coin then you don’t walk away just because things get ugly. It’s one of the rules I live by. Well the corpse in the alley certainly fit the ugly tag. It was ugly enough to make me want to take some vacation time someplace far away. Unfortunately, I’d already cashed my paycheck and despite what some people might say, I have a few standards.

  So, there I was paid in full and obligated to talk to the boss. Instead of asking for time off though, I had to tell him the band wouldn’t be coming back on since one of them was very messily dead in the garbage behind the bar. When I say messily, I mean it was hard to distinguish where garbage and muck ended, and bits of ex-drummer began.

  I assumed it was the drummer from some of the clothes scattered about. There was also the fact that I’d been looking for him out back. One of the barbacks told me he’d seen the guy breaking our rule about bands and clients going out that way. It was supposed to be an insurance risk. It had certainly been risky enough for him. I was already getting a headache when I turned to go back inside.

  Canned heavy metal assaulted me as soon as I opened the alley door. It was the same prerecorded stuff that had started when “The The Niddhoggs” had left the stage. Pronounced Nidth like width it was a decent reference to Norse myth and the serpent destroying the world tree. Then again it probably had more to do with the shiny black motorcycles some of them had roared in on. They even used their “Hawgs” for musical backup on stage from a pair of Softail Harleys.

  First thing through the door I spotted one of the college boys standing there looking impressive and muscle bound near the dance floor. I waved to get his attention then jerked a thumb towards the door.

  We met halfway. “Chet, drag your looming act over by the back door. Nobody goes in or out.”

  “Sure thing Mouse, what’s up?” He adopted his menacing glare as we passed each other.

  “Can’t say just yet Chet. You get over and lock down that door. I gotta talk to the boss before I say anything else capiche?” He got the last bit over my shoulder as I dug into the crowd looking for the boss.

  I dialed the cops myself when I couldn’t find Walter Roy. Walt both co-owns and manages the bar. This means while he’s usually in the office, sometimes he has other business to tend to. I left a note with one of the waitresses to have him look for me out back. Yea, the cops were going to want to talk to me since I found the body. The worst part is I work really hard at not being that noticeable to authority figures and such.

  I mean sure the bartenders and especially the waitresses know who to come to in case of trouble. But to the average clientele, I’m just the polite and kind of stocky guy at the door who cards people and takes the occasional cover charge. There were normally two or three bigger and more noticeable guys in the bar wearing the tight muscle shirts. Sometimes the shirts said security, but usually it was just the full torso Logo of a fantasy-art semi-nude that was half pinup girl and half skeleton where she stood in her boat.

  Me? I don’t really like black as much as everyone else. It’s probably a good thing I’m very proficient at my job. Or maybe it’s just that the boss likes me enough to give me some slack on the dress code. I go for khaki, reds or grey, sometimes maybe a charcoal but everyone else in the place wears enough black and metal to go around. It’s that kind of bar.

  Most of the metal-heads and biker wannabe’s in the bar wear their tattoos like flags and as much metal in their faces as on those silly dog collars some of them wear. Tonight, I was free of piercings, my ink was covered, and aside from the combat boots I was fairly conservatively dressed in unwrinkled 501s and a charcoal colored shirt. So that’s what the flashing lights revealed as the first of several police cars and other official vehicles arrived.

  When the sirens started to wail even louder than the chaotic sounds coming out of the bar, I stepped forward into the light and walked towards the nearest end of the alley. I figured I might as well flag the police down and show them the way. There was no real hurry anymore, but I wanted to get things moving. Spending time with any type of constabulary is one of those things best done quickly like pulling off a bandage.

  The frantic noise of speed-metal rolled out muted but persistent to turn the scene into something out of a mushroom induced dream. The reality factor was already strained by several assaults on the senses; the neon lights flickering from the tattoo parlor at the end of the alley, a sickening stench of bad meat, garbage and worse. Around it all the dayglo colors of graffiti hung like a tribute to acid trips. And of course, like most graffiti in Austin, it was bilingual and mostly profane.

  The absolute worst of the sensory assaults came from the odor of raw sewage and spilled entrails along with a hint of the coppery scent of blood. Plus there was the blood itself in great splatters and roping rivers of black that betrayed the occasional sheen of red when the tattoo parlor lights shined just right. In the middle of that almost artistic arrangement of blood was the pile of rags and splintered bone, black leather, and metal spikes. There was also an incredible amount of offal as what was normally inside the clothing and skin, was now very much outside and strewn about.

  The first officer was young and full of youthful vitality. With an eager look on his face and an energetic bounce he was halfway into the alley. His approach was textbook. One hand stayed near if not on his handgun. The other hand shined the inevitable heavy-duty flashlight right into my eyes.

  “Jesus Chuy, back o
ff the lights. This is the guy who called it in. I doubt he offed somebody in the alley then stood here to wave us in.” The second officer was older, thicker in the middle, and obviously in no real hurry to see whatever was down the alley. He also had eyes that said they’d already seen enough. They said scenes like the one behind me were nothing new and had lost the appeal of novelty long since. To him this would probably be less of an adventure and more of an unpleasant job that had to be done. And if he had to do a job, he was going to do it right. That meant he didn’t need a young eager beaver tugging on his shirt tails. At least that’s what I saw in those tired old eyes.

  “Look kid, walk down the alley, don’t touch anything and don’t stand there gawking at the body. Take some tape with you and seal off that end. We’ll get this end set-up for the SOCO and the meat wagon.” A wave of his meaty hand sent the younger officer jogging down the alley with all of that excess eager energy. “Sorry about the lights. Gomez is a good kid, but this is his first DB. I’m Jackson, what do you have for me?”

  Watching the kid run down the alley with his eyes glued to the body instead of his footing seemed likely to provide some entertainment. I figured it was all but a foregone conclusion that the youngster was in for a spill between the light rain beginning to fall, the poor lighting, and a plentitude of debris and garbage. But you don’t antagonize the bulls, and ignoring one is about the quickest way to get on their bad side. Turning to face the older officer meant I missed whatever caused the loud bang followed by several fairly profane words in Spanish. I had a good guess though.

  Jackson let out a weary sigh and barely noticeable shake of his head. He raised his voice to carry down the alley. “Officer Gomez please do not visit devastation on my crime scene and make the forensic people go all frothy at the mouth…Now about that name sir?”

  “The name is Magnus, security at Helstyxx. You got it right. I called it in. The DB. Yea I caught that part, Dead Body. What’s a SOCO though?” Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate cops or anything. In fact, I figure ninety or so out of every hundred of the boys in blue are probably good guys…most of the time. What I DO hate, is giving my full name and personal info out to anyone at any time for just about any reason. Thus, the counter question so maybe he’d move on down the interrogation line of questioning.

  “Magnus eh? That a first name or last name? And SOCO is the Scene of the Crime Officer. The examiners and CSI types.” Now he had that little notebook out as well as a body cam pointed my direction. I really hate being recorded, or filmed, or pinned down about my identity. I mean I truly despise the notion. But again, it’s not a good idea to antagonize the local constabulary when more of them should be arriving any minute.

  “First name, Magnus, last name Gustaveson. They call me mouse inside.” I jerked a thumb at where the music suddenly crashed out in heavier almost offensive tones. Just stepping down into the alley and closing the door I could see Walter Roy finally responding to my request to join us. When he got further into the alley he got a good look at the dead drummer from our live music for the night. Even from down the alley I saw him jerk halfway upright after he crouched to see the guy. Maybe it was all the blood and carnage. Somehow though I got the idea that Walt had seen and made the guy’s ID, and he reacted a little funny to it. But then again, there was a lot of blood and carnage. And yea the odors.

  We were too far to hear the conversation, but it was visibly apparent that eager young officer Gomez rounded on Walter and fired off a salvo of commands, queries, questions and suspicious comments. Whatever his wording was, it had the net effect of Walter fishing out an ID and handing it to “Chuy”. Jackson noted this with a nod of approval before turning back to me.

  “Okay Mr. Gustaveson. What do you do in the club and how did you discover the…victim?” Jackson tried to give the impression that he wasn’t looking at me. The tightening around his eyes told me he was watching from his peripheral vision though.

  I decided it was probably a good idea to keep the story simple and try not to make any guilty jumps, break out into fidgets or cold sweats or anything similar. “I work the door; do a little security here and there. Just try and keep things quiet, Sergeant Jackson.”

  “Just Officer Jackson.” He tapped his shoulder to show me whatever stripe or chevron arrangement indicated his rank. He tilted his head and looked at the open door from which emanated the various throbs, thrums, screeches, and howling.

  “Quiet eh?” Good thing the cop looked more amused than skeptical.

  “You get used to it.” I shrugged. “I just try and keep the bloodshed down to a minimum. Make sure everyone has a good time without any real trouble or damage to more than an ego or two.”

  As we talked Jackson had led me deeper, towards the actual carnage itself. As a result, we were close enough to see Walter empty his stomach. It was impossible to say if the younger policeman had already done the same thing. He was definitely a little green beneath his healthy tan.

  Walking into full view of the body decorating the alley with its macabre new color scheme, I saw Officer Jackson gulp just once to keep down what was probably the last chili-dog or burrito he’d consumed. “Keep the bloodshed down huh? Great job, Mouse.”

  2

  It was practically daylight by the time Jackson and a series of other law enforcement types were through asking and re-asking a lot of questions I couldn’t answer. Good thing Bouncer and Doorman is by definition a night-job. I was only a couple of hours later than normal in getting home. It was probably a good thing that I was between girlfriends too. I’ve discovered that no matter how normal and otherwise sane she might appear; almost any woman becomes irrational when her boyfriend comes home late from working in a bar.

  Pets are much more practical. They generally don’t know how to read a clock. They also don’t give a single damn about what perfume you might smell like. That’s why I had pets to take care of instead of a lady friend before I went to bed. Rafe is what they call a brown necked Raven. He’s really more of a crow, kind of muddy black with a few spots of while but almost as big as some of the American breeds of Raven. He’s also a bit of a jerk. I haven’t let him out of the house or his own run in years. Not since the 09 Flagstaff missing cat epidemic.

  Rafe acknowledged my servitude with a customarily rough Kawr or two. Then he proceeded to shred one of the phone books I keep to entertain him. While his attention was diverted I managed to sneak a couple of mice and some grasshoppers into the sawdust of his aviary. Once he realizes they’re in there he’ll spend hours hunting them down and ensuring their demise. Not that I enjoy their suffering or death. A live diet just seems to keep him happier and healthier. Something to do with hunting and calcium I think.

  By contrast the dog is a breeze. Feed him, change his water, let him run around in the grass or maybe chase a tennis ball and then share most of a queen size bed with him. It’s amazing that an eighty-pound dog can take up three times as much bed as a good sized healthy adult male human being. I can’t explain it. Grimmr doesn’t care though.

  Grimmr is a Catahoula Leopard Dog. Don’t be too surprised if you haven’t heard of them. Outside of the wilds in Louisiana few people know about the breed. Suffice to say that he can track, fight, hunt, herd, and take up more than half of a large bed. He also has an excess of energy sometimes.

  Despite my late hours and fatigue I met his greeting with a few minutes of rough play at the door. Sometimes such play is rougher on me than the mutt. He got a decent shot at my chin with oversized paws and that was that for rough housing. When I pushed him away he bounced merrily down the hallway without much concern for my aching red jaw.

  In fact, he seemed in fine spirits and was scampering about when I got to the kitchen. Grimmr bounded about in his heavy, wall shaking mode, with a small red fox dodging nimbly between the lummox’s feet. The fox was too small to stand up to even a casual thump of those massive paws, but he was just too fast for those paws to thump even casually. The sight of that damned re
d fox with the sprinkling of snowy white on his muzzle, chest and legs was deflating. The flipping fox almost never shows up with good news. Even as I watched, I felt the spring leave my step. All at once the air became heavy, grey and sour in my lungs. The fox seemed to grin at me and then was gone in a cinnamon colored flash. He came to an abrupt stop next to a barstool supporting a sharply dressed older man with a long greying ponytail and a flawlessly groomed grey speckled beard.

  We’re not talking fashion jeans or a cardigan. This guy started with Italian leather shoes, wool socks in a distinctly unpleasant greenish tartan, and a dark suit from Savile Row. A silver chased walking stick finished the look along and a Burberry overcoat worth a dozen of my favorite London Fog. Picture a middle aged, stocky, slightly more modern, and less in shape version of Steed or maybe Sean Connery to go with the mild brogue.

  “Morning, Eachan.” I started to settle atop my on barstool but was cut short by a wave of his hand.

  “Yes Magnus, it is indeed morning. I suspect it shall not be a good morning however. You should perhaps brace yourself. And since it is indeed morning and not a more appropriate hour, I’d suggest making a pot of the coffee I left over on the counter. Get that started and we shall talk of portents and omens. Else I fear you shall find yourself facing death and waves of scarlet.” No kidding. He really talks like that. I assume it’s from burying his erudite nose in way too many books that are older than Clint Eastwood.