Read Online Tales from the Crypt - Demon Knight by Randall Boyll - Free Book Online
Authors: Randall Boyll
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to his forehead. “Say what?”
“There. A little ledge under the perimeter of the table. He hid the key there when we came in.”
“Zat so?” Tupper looked tired of the whole affair. “Give me a second.” He bent over and felt under the lower edge of the table, grunting against the pressure of his ample stomach as his belt cut into it. His face turned a definite red.
“Whoa-oh,” he blurted suddenly. “We’ve got something here.”
Faintly, something clunked. Tupper backed up and rose to his feet. “Bingo,” he wheezed, and held it up.
An ornamental key. Uncle Willie, looking at it, had one distinct thought: Big fucking deal. It was made out of some kind of pounded metal and looked to be worth about twenty-two cents at a recycling place, if you were lucky.
The guy they were calling Salesman clicked open his little leather case. “Sheriff,” he said, “be so kind as to put it in here, would you?”
Tupper eyeballed the key, shook it in his hand while he recovered his breath. “There’s some kind of glass ball toward the top,” he said. “About half full of dark stuff.” He swished it around, holding it to the light. “Looks like maple syrup.”
Feet clopped on the stairs. “Didn’t find nothing in Room Five,” Martel blared, and grinned his famous monkey-grin. “Caught me a whore and her john in the act, though. It’s a three-way bust tonight.”
Behind him were Cordelia and Roach, their clothes ruffled and off-kilter, Roach’s face smeary with red lipstick, his shoes untied. Cordelia’s extensive makeup had been smeared around and she was barefoot. And as mad, Uncle Willie could see as he watched them descend, as a hornet stuck on hot flypaper.
“Sheriff Tupper,” Cordelia brayed as she reached the landing, “I will not tolerate this kind of treatment from your deputy! You and I have known each other since the git-go. We have been more than friends on occasion. Kindly inform your storm trooper that we have an agreement!”
“Ah, jeez, Bob,” Tupper groaned. “Leave these good folk alone.”
The Salesman cleared his throat. “Sheriff, dump that crap out of the orb and put the key in this case, won’t you now? And I’ll be on my way.”
Tupper glanced at him. “Orb? Oh yeah, you’re a hotshot antique dealer from back east. And you’ll be on your way, on foot in a thunderstorm, no car, no map or nothing to guide you back to New York or wherever the hell you came from. Mister, you are as strange a man as Brayker ever will be, and you are not going anywhere until this whole damned mess is figured out. Jeryline!”
She was gone. A length of curly telephone wire led from the front desk, over the top of the nearest door, and into the kitchen. She appeared and waved a hand meaning Hold your horses, Sheriff, I’ll be done in a minute—at least to Uncle Willie’s way of deciphering things.
Tupper cursed softly. “Deputy, take Mr. Brayker here out to the car.”
Martel moved to take control of Brayker, who began to twist and struggle as Tupper started to put the key in its case. “Don’t do it!” he shouted. “You don’t know what will happen, what’s at stake!”
“He’s simply insane,” the Salesman said. “This is obviously the receptacle for the artifact, and I am obviously its owner.”
Jeryline strode out of the kitchen with the phone in her hand. “Mavis has a line through to the crime-net computer, but the only Brayker they show was a petty thief who died four years ago.”
Tupper scowled. “Wouldn’t you know? Okay, Bob, get his ass to the car. As far as we know he has no priors, but attempted auto theft is a good start.” He turned to the Salesman and extended the key. “Here it is.”
“You can’t give him that,” Brayker howled. “He’s not who he says he is!”
The Salesman had taken a step backward. “Well?” Tupper demanded. “You want it, or not?”
“Just place it in the case for me.”
Tupper narrowed his eyes. “What, you
“There. A little ledge under the perimeter of the table. He hid the key there when we came in.”
“Zat so?” Tupper looked tired of the whole affair. “Give me a second.” He bent over and felt under the lower edge of the table, grunting against the pressure of his ample stomach as his belt cut into it. His face turned a definite red.
“Whoa-oh,” he blurted suddenly. “We’ve got something here.”
Faintly, something clunked. Tupper backed up and rose to his feet. “Bingo,” he wheezed, and held it up.
An ornamental key. Uncle Willie, looking at it, had one distinct thought: Big fucking deal. It was made out of some kind of pounded metal and looked to be worth about twenty-two cents at a recycling place, if you were lucky.
The guy they were calling Salesman clicked open his little leather case. “Sheriff,” he said, “be so kind as to put it in here, would you?”
Tupper eyeballed the key, shook it in his hand while he recovered his breath. “There’s some kind of glass ball toward the top,” he said. “About half full of dark stuff.” He swished it around, holding it to the light. “Looks like maple syrup.”
Feet clopped on the stairs. “Didn’t find nothing in Room Five,” Martel blared, and grinned his famous monkey-grin. “Caught me a whore and her john in the act, though. It’s a three-way bust tonight.”
Behind him were Cordelia and Roach, their clothes ruffled and off-kilter, Roach’s face smeary with red lipstick, his shoes untied. Cordelia’s extensive makeup had been smeared around and she was barefoot. And as mad, Uncle Willie could see as he watched them descend, as a hornet stuck on hot flypaper.
“Sheriff Tupper,” Cordelia brayed as she reached the landing, “I will not tolerate this kind of treatment from your deputy! You and I have known each other since the git-go. We have been more than friends on occasion. Kindly inform your storm trooper that we have an agreement!”
“Ah, jeez, Bob,” Tupper groaned. “Leave these good folk alone.”
The Salesman cleared his throat. “Sheriff, dump that crap out of the orb and put the key in this case, won’t you now? And I’ll be on my way.”
Tupper glanced at him. “Orb? Oh yeah, you’re a hotshot antique dealer from back east. And you’ll be on your way, on foot in a thunderstorm, no car, no map or nothing to guide you back to New York or wherever the hell you came from. Mister, you are as strange a man as Brayker ever will be, and you are not going anywhere until this whole damned mess is figured out. Jeryline!”
She was gone. A length of curly telephone wire led from the front desk, over the top of the nearest door, and into the kitchen. She appeared and waved a hand meaning Hold your horses, Sheriff, I’ll be done in a minute—at least to Uncle Willie’s way of deciphering things.
Tupper cursed softly. “Deputy, take Mr. Brayker here out to the car.”
Martel moved to take control of Brayker, who began to twist and struggle as Tupper started to put the key in its case. “Don’t do it!” he shouted. “You don’t know what will happen, what’s at stake!”
“He’s simply insane,” the Salesman said. “This is obviously the receptacle for the artifact, and I am obviously its owner.”
Jeryline strode out of the kitchen with the phone in her hand. “Mavis has a line through to the crime-net computer, but the only Brayker they show was a petty thief who died four years ago.”
Tupper scowled. “Wouldn’t you know? Okay, Bob, get his ass to the car. As far as we know he has no priors, but attempted auto theft is a good start.” He turned to the Salesman and extended the key. “Here it is.”
“You can’t give him that,” Brayker howled. “He’s not who he says he is!”
The Salesman had taken a step backward. “Well?” Tupper demanded. “You want it, or not?”
“Just place it in the case for me.”
Tupper narrowed his eyes. “What, you
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