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Dealings
A Vorare story
By
Ivan Ewert
Start at the very beginning of the entire Vorare archive

Gordon had walked the sixteen miles between Whitmire and Clinton, thinking with every step. Involving himself more fully with the ... well, whatever the Allies were, be they spirits or demons, hardly seemed like a good idea, yet he'd managed things so far.

If they could help him get his mother to safety, it seemed like any deal might be worth it. In his year of imprisonment he'd thought of her only fleetingly, too overwhelmed with horror at his situation to really focus on his past. After his resurrection, he'd been prepared to simply wreak his vengeance and then move along, and it was clearly the path his Ally would have preferred. When the Farmer had threatened him after the incident with the dogs, however, everything seemed to have changed. He didn't want anyone in the world to suffer as he had at the hands of the Gentlemen Ghouls; least of all his own flesh and blood.

"Give me the name," he said, looking across the busy highway. "And tell me who to call."

"The name is Agam. With that name of power will you be able to convince and, if need be, command him into performing some deed in your service. You must be wary, however; for it does not pay to make a foe of him, and if he asks some slight thing in return then that promise may well be worth your while."

"How slight?"

"I will warn you if Agam asks too much," said the Ally, and tightened again in the now-familiar sign. "It is none of my wish to throw you to the wolves, but to see this matter taken care of quickly, that we may return all the sooner to the destruction of the ghouls."

"It's the name, then. How am I supposed to get new identification from him without giving my name?"

"They are false papers, are they not? What matter the names that you give?"

Gordon shook his head, feeling foolish. "I guess that's true ... all right. How do we summon him?"

"Find us a telephone, and we will see."

"A telephone? Where?"

"There will be one. Cover me now, for the light is up and I would not have the world know who and what we are."

He had thought ahead before coming south, buying a backpack full of long-sleeved shirts as well as more seasonable clothing. Wearing them in August in South Carolina might raise some eyebrows in the heat of the day, but not nearly so much as the open wound across his arm.

The Ally had been right. Another hour of walking down Route 56 brought him to a diner which had a decrepit payphone still standing alongside.

"Do we turn a stone into a quarter?"

"No, my host. Simply pick up the telephone, and hold your fingers to the receiver."

He did so, tracing the circular pattern of the plastic with his index finger. A brief pinprick of warmth came to his arm, followed by a thin trickle of blood which smeared its way across the receiver. As the bloody circle was completed, the phone began to ring.

Gordon brought the phone to his mouth, trying to ignore the sight of his own blood. "Hello?"

"Hello," said a woman's voice, "May I ask who's calling, please?"

The exchange seemed so ordinary that Gordon nearly stumbled through an automatic reply, catching himself at the last moment. "John," he said, "my name is John. I'm calling for Agam."

There was silence for a moment, then a male voice came through. "Well. This is he, John. To what or whom do I owe the pleasure of speaking with you?"

"I can't really say. But I need to talk with you. I need some papers made."

"I gathered." The voice sounded more amused than anything, lacking both the ingratiating deference and curious language of the Ally. If anything, Gordon thought he picked up a slight accent, though one he could not place. "Why else would you call me? Where are you?"

Again, Gordon paused, and the chuckle which came through the phone was genuine. "I can't give you papers, or mail them to you, or whatever it is you want done, unless I know who and where you are, sir."

"You can call me John ..."

"Though it's not your name."

"It'll do. And you can find me in Clinton, South Carolina. I'm outside the diner, not far north of the interstate exit."

"Very good. I'll take the steak and eggs, if you don't mind getting us a place to sit. I'll be with you in less than half an hour."

"You're that close?"

"You've no idea," said Agam, and the line went dead.

The lights inside were harsh and yellow, reflecting off the ancient paint to make the diner seem even older and more tired than it was.

"Coffee?" The woman behind the counter spoke without inflection, never looking to Gordon but only at her notepad.

"Please," he said, turning his attention to the racks of pastries behind her. He hadn't eaten - had not wanted to eat since his rebirth in the woods, but the smell of sugar and grease and dough cut through the revulsion he had felt. He knew it for what it was, a childhood memory of lazy Saturday mornings spent in front of the television or wandering down to the creek behind his home, a sugary treat straight from the shop in his hand.

"Anything to eat?"

He paused a second, then said, "Yeah ... Bavarian cr?, please."

The tightening around his forearm made him grin for a second. He had no idea if he'd be able to stomach food, or even drink the coffee; but the pretense of normalcy - even for only a moment - was a warm and blessed relief.

The hostess set down his order, and he suddenly realized that his hands were shaking. What had smelled pleasant now looked foul in front of him, the glistening oil along its sides setting his teeth on edge. He picked up the coffee and found himself unable to look past the bubbles which popped along the rim of the cup. His stomach cramped as he brought the cup nearly to his lips, and he set it down too quickly to avoid spilling some onto the counter.

"Sorry," he called, dabbing with his napkin. The hostess was on her way when the bells above the door rang, and Agam stepped in.

He was short and slim, with a slightly Latin cast to his skin. His dark hair was swept back from a broad forehead which rose above a pair of aviator glasses, and the smile he threw to the hostess brought him one in return.

"Good morning, John. Good morning, miss." He came forward with his hand extended for a shake, but kept his eyes on the woman. "Has my friend here ordered breakfast?"

"I didn't get to yours," said Gordon, standing to shake hands. As he did, his Ally twisted in such a way that he had little choice but to jerk his arm away.

"No shake, no breakfast." Agam shook his head, still smiling. "Same old John. Steak and eggs, please, miss. Rare and runny, respectively." He sat down then, swiveling the stool to regard Gordon. "You look like absolute hell. How long since you slept?"

"Months."

"It shows. I've never been a fan of mortification, myself, but to each their own. So what, precisely, have you called me here for?"

"I need ..." Gordon cast his eyes toward the hostess, who was busily cleaning the coffeemaker. "I need a new driver's license and at least one credit card. Probably a social security, too; maybe with Medicare."

"You're not nearly old enough for that."

"It's for somebody else."

Agam's eyebrow lifted. "Really. Mortifying the flesh and making dangerous deals to assist others. You're a regular saint, aren't you?"

The difference in tone and attitude had been such that Gordon had to wrench his mind around the fact that this was another Ally ... or potentially so. He took a deep breath.

"That's enough of that. I called you here to get these things, nothing more."

"As you wish," said Agam. "It will take less time if you have a photo."

"I don't, not on me."

"Then it will take me a few days. What is the name you wish to use?"

Beneath his sleeve, the Ally tightened - giving the sign for a liar. "Why the extra time?"

"You doubt me?"

"I know better."

Agam flashed a smile. "All right, then. An address, so I can see this new person for myself."

"No."

"You expect me to give you counterfeit identification that will fool the most sophisticated computers in the Western hemisphere, and you won't or can't give me any idea of what the person looks like."

Gordon nodded. "What's more," he said, "I'm pretty sure you can do it."

The two made eye contact for only a moment before Agam broke it off with a growl. "Give me a gender, at least."

"Female."

"There's a start. Any name in mind?"

"Nothing that will attract attention. Alice, maybe. Alice Smith."

"Close to her real name? You'll want to have an excuse for if someone calls her and she forgets to answer properly."

"You're clever, Agam." Gordon watched his face twitch at the sound of the name, and found to his surprise that he enjoyed seeing the Ally's discomfort.

"I am," Agam agreed, "it's best that you remember that. Do you offer me anything for this task, John? Or is it to be a command without immediate consequence?"

The word immediate made Gordon uncomfortable, and he showed it with a frown. "I haven't given you anything you've asked for so far. What do you think it's worth to me?"

"A name."

"I won't give it to you."

"Not your name. Not her name. A name. Any name. It can be anyone you know, anyone you used to know. But I want a full name, and I want it given to me in exchange for this favor if you want to call things even. Otherwise, I will consider it a debt that's owed me, whether you think I can do anything about it or not."

The Ally remained silent beneath Gordon's sleeve. The deal, it seemed, was a fair one. Gordon thought for a moment, casting his mind back. He'd not known another person to speak to in such a long time, alone with the nameless Ally and his memories of fear, of flight, or the Farm ...of the betrayal he had experienced at the hands of one who had been closer than any other in his life. The last name he could remember in full, one he had carried through snow and ice and starvation, through madness and rebirth, the name of the only man thus far who had fully acted as a ghoul.

"George," said Gordon suddenly. "George Alan Howe. If he's still alive, there's your name."

Agam looked up to the lights, pupils dilating before his lips stretched into a thin smile. "That," he said, "is an excellent name, and I will consider myself paid."
 
He set his hand on the counter, and when he lifted it, four cards sat underneath. A Tennessee driver's license and two credit cards under than name of Alice Smith, and a social security card in the same name.

"Don't hold the license longer than you have to," said Agam. "Give it to her as soon as possible."

"Why?"

"Look at it."

Gordon did, and wished he had not. The photo was nightmarish, an utterly blank face with no eyes, no nose, no mouth ... a hairless expanse of baby-pink skin, a half-finished mannequin which had yet to be carved.

"It'll only take a few hours once she has it," Agam said, "it's all I can do without more information from you."

"I think it'll do," said Gordon, sliding the cards into his pocket. "We're even?"

"Almost," smiled Agam. "I expect you to pay for breakfast."

Story and image by Ivan Ewert, Copyright 2007