Encounters Page 9

  6. The Werewolf

  After I left Italy I wandered north and west. A couple of months later I found myself in Hungary, which ain't never gonna provide the Riviera with any serious competition for tourists. Each town I passed through was duller than the last, until I got to Budapest, which was considerably less exciting than Boise, Idaho on a Tuesday afternoon.

  I passed by an old, run-down arena that did double duty, hosting hockey games on weeknights and dog shows on Saturdays, then walked by the only nightclub in town, which was featuring one of the more popular lady tuba soloists in the country, and finally I came to the Magyar Hotel and rented me a room. After I'd left my gear there I set out to scout out the city and see if there were enough depraved sinners to warrant building my tabernacle there and setting up shop in the salvation business. My unerring instincts led me right to a batch of them, who were holed up in the men's room of the bus station, playing a game with which I was not entirely unfamiliar, as it consisted of fifty-two pasteboards with numbers or pictures on ’em and enough money in the pot to make it interesting.

  “Mind if I join you gents?” I asked, walking over to them.

  “Either you put your shirt on backward, or else you're a preacher,” said one of ’em in an English accent.

  “What's that got to do with anything?” I asked.

  “We'd feel guilty taking your money,” he said.

  “You ain't got a thing to worry about,” I said, sitting down with them.

  “Well,” he said with a shrug, “you've been warned.”

  “I appreciate that, neighbor,” I said, “and just to show my good will, I absolve everyone here of any sins they committed between nine o'clock this morning and noon. Now, who deals?”

  The game got going hot and heavy, and I had just about broken even, when the British feller dealt a hand of draw, and I picked up my cards and fanned ’em out and suddenly I was looking at four aces and a king, and two of my opponents had great big grins on their faces, the kind of grin you get when you pick up a flush or a full house, and one of ’em opened, and the other raised, and I raised again, and it was like I'd insulted their manhood, because they raised right back, and pretty soon everyone else had dropped out and the three of us were tossing money into the pot like there wasn't no tomorrow, and just about the time we all ran out of money and energy and were about to show our cards, a little Hungarian kid ran into the room and shouted something in a foreign language—probably Hungarian, now as I come to think on it—and suddenly everyone grabbed their money and got up and started making for the exit.

  “Hey, what's going on?” I demanded. “Where do you guys think you're going?”

  “Away!” said the British feller.

  “But we're in the middle of a hand,” I protested.

  “Lupo is coming!” said the Brit. “The game's over!”

  “Who the hell is Lupo?” I demanded.

  “He's more of a what. You'll leave too, if you know what's good for you!”

  And suddenly, just like that, I was all alone in the men's room of a Hungarian bus station, holding four totally useless aces and a king, and thinking that maybe Hungarians were more in need of a shrink than a preacher. Then the door opened, and in walked this thin guy with grayish skin and hair everywhere—on his head, his lip, his chin, even the backs of his hands.

  “Howdy, Brother,” I said, and he nodded at me. “You better not plan on lingering too long,” I added. “Someone or something called Lupo is on its way here.”

  He turned to face me and stared at me intently.

  “I am Lupo,” he said.

  “You are?”

  “Count Basil de Chenza Lupo,” he continued. “Who are you?”

  “The Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones at your service,” I said.

  “Do you see any reason why you should run at the sight of me?” he continued.

  “Except for the fact that you got a predatory look about you and probably ain't on speaking terms with your barber, nary a one,” I answered.

  “They are fools,” he said. “Fools and peasants, nothing more.”

  “Maybe so,” I said, “but you could have timed your call of Nature just a mite better, considering I was holding four bullets and the pot had reached a couple of thousand dollars.”

  "Bullet?" he said, kind of growling deep in his throat. “What kind?”

  “Well, when you got four of ’em, there ain't a lot left except clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades,” I said.

  “But not silver?” he said.

  “Not as I recollect.”

  “Good,” he said, suddenly looking much relieved. “I am sorry I have caused you such distress, Doctor Jones.”

  “Well, I suppose when push comes to shove, it ain't really your fault, Brother Basil,” I said.

  “Nevertheless, I insist that you allow me to take you to dinner to make amends.”

  “That's right cordial of you,” I said. “I'm a stranger in town. You got any particular place in mind?”

  “We will dine at The Strangled Elk,” he said. “It belongs to some Gypsy friends of mine.”

  “Whatever suits you,” I said agreeably.

  We walked out of the station, hit the main drag, and turned left.

  “By the way, Brother Basil,” I said, “why were all them men running away from a nice, friendly gent like you?”

  He shrugged. “They are superstitious peasants,” he said. “Let us speak no more of them.”

  “Suits me,” I said. “People what entice a man of the cloth into a sinful game like poker and then run off when he's got the high hand ain't headed to no good end anyway.”

  I noticed as we walked down the street that everyone was giving us a pretty wide berth, and finally we turned down a little alleyway where all the men were dark and swarthy and wearing shirts that could have been took in some at the arms, and the women were sultry and good-looking and wearing colorful skirts and blouses, and Basil told me we were now among his Gypsy friends and no one would bother us, not that anyone had been bothering us before, and after a little while we came to a sign that said we'd reached The Strangled Elk, and we went inside.

  It wasn't the cleanest place I'd ever seen, but I'd been a couple of weeks between baths myself, so I can't say that I minded it all that much. There was nobody there except one skinny old waiter, and Basil called him over and said something in Gypsy, and the waiter went away and came back a minute later with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  Well, we filled the glasses and chatted about this and that, and then we drank some more and talked some more, and finally the waiter brought out a couple of steaks.

  “Brother Basil,” I said, looking down at my plate, “I like my meat as rare as the next man, but I don't believe this has been cooked at all.”

  “I am sorry, my friend,” he said. “That is the way I always eat it, and the cook simply assumed you shared my taste.” He signaled to the waiter, said something else in Gypsy, and the waiter took my plate away. “It will be back in a few moments, properly cooked.”

  “You always eat your steak like that?” I asked, pointing to the slab of raw meat in front of him.

  “It is the only way,” he replied, picking it up with his hands and biting off a goodly chunk of it. He growled and snarled as he chewed it.

  “You got a bit of a throat condition?” I asked.

  “Something like that,” he said. “I apologize if my table manners offend you.”

  “I've et with worse,” I said. In fact, if push came to shove, I couldn't remember having dined with a lot that were much more refined.

  Well, my steak came back just then, and after covering it with a pint of ketchup just to bring out the subtle nuances of its flavor, I dug in, and just so Basil wouldn't feel too conspicuous I growled and snarled too, and we spent the next five or ten minutes enjoying the noisiest meal of my experience, after which we polished off a couple of more bottles of wine.

  “I have truly enjoyed this evening, my frie
nd,” said Basil after we were all done. “So few people will even speak to me, let alone join me in a repast...”

  “I can't imagine why,” I said. “You'd have to search far and wide to find a more hospitable feller.”

  “Nonetheless,” he said, “it is time for you to leave.”

  “It's only about nine o'clock,” I said. “I think I'll just sit here and digest the repast and maybe smoke a cigar or two, that is if you got any to spare, and then I'll mosey on back to my humble dwelling.”

  “You really must leave now,” he said.

  “You got a ladyfriend due any minute, right?” I said with a sly smile. “Well, never let it be said that Lucifer Jones ain't the soul of understanding and discretion. Why, I recall one time back in Cairo, or maybe it was Merrakech, that I...”

  "Hurry!" he shouted. “The moon is rising!”

  “Now how could you possibly know that, sitting here in the back of the room?” I asked.

  “I know!” he said.

  I got up and walked over to the doorway and stuck my head out. “Well, son of a gun, the moon is out,” I said. “I don't see your ladyfriend nowhere, though.”

  I turned back to face him, but Count Basil de Chenza Lupo wasn't nowhere to be seen. In fact, there wasn't no one in the room except the old waiter and an enormous wolf that must have wandered in through the kitchen door.

  “Well, I've heard of restaurants that got roaches,” I said, “and restaurants that got rats, but I do believe this is the first eatery I ever been to that was infested by wolves.” I turned to the waiter. “What happened to Basil?” I asked. “Did he go off to the necessary?”

  The waiter shook his head.

  “Then where is he?”

  The waiter pointed to the wolf.

  “I don't believe I'm making myself clear,” I said. “I ain't interested in no four-legged critters with fleas and bad breath. Where is Basil?”

  The waiter pointed to the wolf again.

  “I don't know why it's so hard to understand,” I said. “That there is a wolf. I want to know what became of Basil.”

  The waiter nodded his head. “Basil,” he said, pointing at the wolf again.

  “You mean the wolf is named Basil, too?” I asked.

  The waiter just threw his hands up and walked out of the room, leaving me alone with the wolf.

  Well, I looked at the wolf for a good long while, and he looked right back at me, and as time went by it occurred to me that I hadn't seen no other wolves in all my wanderings through Europe, and that some zoo ought to be happy to pay a healthy price for such a prime specimen, so I walked over kind of gingerly and let him smell the back of my hand, and when I was sure he wasn't viewing me as a potential appetizer, I slipped my belt out of my pants and slid it around his neck and turned it into a leash.

  “You come along with me, Basil,” I said. “Tonight you can sleep in my hotel room, and tomorrow we'll set about finding a properly generous and appreciative home for you.”

  I started off toward the door, but he dug his feet in and practically pulled my arm out of the socket.

  “Now Basil,” I said, jerking on the leash with both hands, “I ain't one to abuse dumb animals, but one way or the other you're coming with me.”

  He pulled back and whimpered, and then he snarled, and then he just went limp and laid down, but I was determined to get him out of there, and I started dragging him along the floor, and finally he whined one last time and got to his feet and started trotting alongside of me, and fifteen minutes later we reached the door of the Magyar Hotel. I had a feeling they had some policy or other regarding wild critters in the rooms, so I waited until the desk clerk went off to flirt with one of the maids, and then I opened the door and me and Basil made a beeline for the staircase, and reached the second floor without being seen. I walked on down the corridor until I came to my room, unlocked it, and shagged Basil into it. He looked more nervous and bewildered than vicious, and finally he hopped onto the couch and curled up and went to sleep, and I lay back down on the bed and drifted off while I was trying to figure out how many thousands of dollars a real live wolf was worth.

  Except that when I woke up, all set to take Basil the wolf off to the zoo, he wasn't there. Instead, laying naked on the couch and snoring up a storm, was Basil the Count, with my belt still around his neck.

  I shook him awake, and he sat up, startled, and began blinking his eyes.

  “You got something highly personal and just a tad improbable that you want to confide in me, Brother Basil?” I said.

  “I tried to warn you,” he said plaintively. “I told you to leave, to hurry.”

  “You considered seeing a doctor about this here condition?” I said. “Or maybe a veterinarian?”

  He shook his head miserably. “It is a Gypsy curse,” he said at last. “There is nothing that can be done about it. I am a werewolf, and that's all there is to it.”

  “And that's why all them guys were running away from you at the station and looking askance at you on the street?”

  He nodded. “I am an outcast, a pariah among my own people.”

  “Yeah, well, I can see how it probably hampers your social life,” I opined.

  “It has hampered all aspects of my life,” he said unhappily. “I have seen so many charlatans and poseurs trying to get the curse removed that I am practically destitute. I cannot form a lasting relationship. I dare not be among strangers when the moon comes out. And some of the behavior carries over: you saw me at the dinner table last night.”

  “Well, it may have been a bit out of the ordinary,” I said soothingly, “but as long as you don't lift your leg on the furniture, I don't suppose anyone's gonna object too strenuously. Especially since if they object at the wrong time of day, there's a strong possibility they could wind up getting et.”

  “You are the most understanding and compassionate man I've ever met, Doctor Jones,” he said, “but I am at the end of my tether. I don't know what to do. I have no one to turn to. Only these accursed Gypsies will tolerate my presence, because it amuses them. I think very soon I shall end it all.”

  At which point the Lord smote me with another of His heavenly revelations.

  “Seems to me you're being a mite hasty, Brother Basil,” I said.

  “What is the use of going on?” he said plaintively. “I will never be able to remove the curse.”

  “First of all, you got to stop thinking of your condition as a curse,” I continued. “What if I was to show you how the werewolf business could be a blessing in disguise?”

  “Impossible!”

  “You willing to bet five thousand dollars on that?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

  “You see,” I said, “the problem is that you ain't never really examined yourself when the moon is out. You ain't simply a werewolf, but you happen to be a damned fine-looking werewolf.”

  “So what?”

  “On my way into town, I passed an arena that holds a dog show every Saturday. The sign said that the prize money was ten thousand dollars.”

  “You just said five,” he pointed out.

  “Well, me and the Lord have got to have a little something to live on, too,” I said.

  “What makes you think a wolf can win a dog show?” he said dubiously.

  “Why don't you just concentrate on being a handsome, manly type of critter and let me worry about the rest of it?” I said.

  Well, we argued it back and forth for the better part of the morning, but finally he admitted that he didn't see no better alternatives, and he could always commit suicide the next week if things didn't work out, and I went off to buy a leash and some grooming equipment at the local pet store, and then stopped by the arena for an entry form. I didn't know if he had an official werewolf name or not, so I just writ down Grand International Champion Basil on the form, and let it go at that.

  The biggest problem I had the next two days was finding a vet who was open at night,
so I could get Basil his rabies and distemper shots, but finally I convinced one to work late for an extra fifty dollars, which I planned to deduct from Basil's share of the winnings, since the shots didn't do me no good personally, and then it was Saturday, and we just stuck around the hotel until maybe five in the afternoon, Basil getting more and more nervous, and finally we walked on over to the arena.

  Basil's class was scheduled to be judged at seven o'clock, but as the hour approached it began to look like the moon wasn't going to come out in time, and since I didn't want us to forfeit all that money by not showing up on time, I quick ran out into the alley, grabbed the first couple of cats I could find, and set ’em loose in the arena. The newspaper the next morning said that the ruckus was so loud they could hear it all the way over in Szentendre, which was a little town about forty miles up the road, and by the time everything had gone back to normal Basil was about as far from normal as Hungarian counts are prone to get, and I slipped his leash on him and headed for the ring.

  There were three other dogs ahead of us, and after we entered the ring the judge came over and look at Basil.

  “This is a class for miniature poodles,” he said severely. “Just what kind of mongrel is that?”

  “You know this guy, Basil?” I asked.

  Basil nodded.

  “He one of the ones who's mean to you when you walk through town?”

  Basil growled an ugly growl.

  "Basil?" said the judge, turning white as a sheet.

  Basil gave him a toothy grin.

  “Now, to answer your question,” I said, “this here happens to be a fully-growed miniature poodle what takes umbrage when you insults its ancestry.”

  The judge stared at Basil for another couple of seconds, then disqualified the other three dogs for not looking like him and handed me a blue ribbon.

  Well, to make a long story short, old Basil terrorized the judges in the next three classes he was in and won ’em all, and then the ring steward told me that I had five minutes to prepare for the final class of the day, where they would pick the best dog in the show and award the winner the ten thousand dollars.

  Suddenly Basil started whining up a storm. I couldn't see no ticks or fleas on him, and he couldn't tell me what was bothering him, but something sure was, and finally I noticed that he was staring intently at something, and I turned to see what it was, and it turned out to be this lovely-looking lady who was preparing to judge the Best in Show class.