Crackpot Palace Read Free Page A

Dex and reached in to grab the gun. He stood and slipped it into the waist of his pants. “How do I collect?”
    â€œThe cure will be delivered before the night is through,” said the professor. “Hurry, Mondrian can only forgo his beloved tips for so long.”
    â€œWhat do you have against him?” Dex asked as he lifted his hat off the chair beside him.
    â€œHe’s a computational loop,” said Killheffer. “A real zero-sum game.”
    At the head of the long dark hallway on the third floor of the pavilion, Dex was stopped by the night man, an imposing fellow with a bald head and a sawed-off shotgun in his left hand.
    â€œWhat’s news, Jeminy?” said Dex.
    â€œObviously you are, Dex. Looking for a room?”
    He nodded.
    â€œTen dollars. But for you, for old times’ sake, ten dollars,” said Jeminy and laughed.
    â€œYou’re too good to me,” said Dex, a ten spot appearing in his hand. “The lady’ll be along any minute.”
    â€œSizzle Parlor number five,” the big man said, his voice echoing down the hall. “Grease that griddle, my friend.”
    â€œWill do,” said Dex, and before long slowed his pace and looked over his shoulder to check that Jeminy had again taken his seat facing away, toward the stairwell. He passed door after door, and after every six a weak gas lamp glowed on either wall. As he neared parlor number 4, he noticed the door was open a sliver, but it was dark inside. Brandishing the gun, he held it straight up in front of him. He hesitated a moment, held back by an odd feeling, either a rare shred of excitement or a pang of conscience. “Poor Mondrian,” he thought, remembering in an instant how the mustached homunculus had rendered his maître d’ services with the most steadfast dedication.
    Opening the door, he slipped inside, and shut it quietly behind him. Moonlight shone in through one tall arched window, but Dex could only make out shadows. He scanned the room, and slowly the forms of chairs, a coffee table, a vanity, and, off to the side of the room, a bed became evident to him. Sitting up on the edge of that bed was a lumpen silhouette, atop it the telltale shape of the fez.
    â€œIs it you, my desert flower?” came the voice of Mondrian.
    Dex swiftly crossed the room. When he was next to the figure, and had surmised where his victim’s left temple might be, he cocked the gun’s hammer with his thumb and wrapped his index finger around the trigger. Before he could squeeze off the shot, though, the slouched bag of shadow that was Mondrian lunged into him with terrific force. Dex, utterly surprised that the meek little fellow would have the gumption to attack, fell backward, tripping on the rug, the gun flying off into the dark. He tried to get to his feet, but the maître d’ landed on him like three sacks of concrete, one hand grabbing his throat. No matter how many times Dex managed a punch to Mondrian’s face, the shadow of the fez never toppled away. They rolled over and over and then into the moonlight. Dex saw the flash of a curved blade above him, but his arms were now pinned by his assailant’s knees. Unable to halt the knife’s descent, he held his breath in preparation for pain. Then the lights went on, there was a gunshot, and his attacker fell off him.
    Dex scrabbled to his feet and turned to find Adeline, standing next to the open door, the barrel of the gun she held still smoking. From down the hall, he heard Jeminy blow his whistle, an alert to the Ice Garden’s force of leg breakers.
    â€œNice shot, baby,” he said. “Kill the lights and close the door.”
    She closed the door behind her, but didn’t flip the switch. “Look,” she said to Dex, pointing with the gun at the floor behind him. He turned and saw the hundred-tooth smile of Killheffer. The fez was secured around the professor’s chin by a rubber band.