Black Cat Weekly #116

By Norman Spinrad, Neil S. Plakcy, Stacy Woodson and 7 more

On behalf of the staff, the contributors, and myself, I’d like to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving. (You may all burst into traditional Thanksgiving carols, should you wish.)

Here’s our holiday lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Restavek,” by Neil S. Plakcy [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Case of the Tipsy Turkey,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“he Final Course,” by Stacy Woodson [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Tiger Island,” by Carl Jacobi [short story]
Tiger Island, by Jack Ritchie [serial novel, part 1 of 3]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Baad-hin’jan and the Chickpea,” by Anna Tambour [short story]
“The Music of the Sphere” by Norman Spinrad [short story]
“Go To Sleep, My Darling,” by Winston K. Marks [short story]
“The Statistomat Pitch,” by Chan Davis [short story]
The Eagle’s Wing, by Francis Jarman [serial novel, part 1 of 4]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Nov 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667682808

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE RESTAVEK, by Neil S. Plakcy

THE CASE OF THE TIPSY TURKEY, by Hal Charles

THE FINAL COURSE, by Stacy Woodson

TIGER ISLAND, by Carl Jacobi

TIGER ISLAND, by Jack Ritchie

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

BAAD-HIN’JAN AND THE CHICKPEA, by Anna Tambour

THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERE, by Norman Spinrad

GO TO SLEEP, MY DARLING, by Winston K. Marks

THE STATISTOMAT PITCH, by Chan Davis

THE EAGLE’S WING, by Francis Jarman

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE FACTIONS IN THE SENATE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

The Restavek, is copyright © 2023 by Neil S. Plakcy and appears here for the first time.

The Case of the Larcenous Leprechaun is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

The Final Course, is copyright © 2019 by Stacy Woodson. Originally published in Flash Bang Mysteries. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Tiger Island, by Carl Jacobi, was originally published in Thrilling Adventures, May 1937.

Tiger Island is copyright © 1987 by the Estate of Jack Ritchie. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Jack Ritchie.

Baad-hin’jan and the Chickpea is copyright © 2015 by Anna Tambour. First published in The Finest Ass in the Universe by Anna Tambour, Ticonderoga Publications, 2015. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Music of the Sphere is copyright © 2011 by Norman Spinrad. Originally published in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, July 2011. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Go To Sleep, My Darling, by Winston K. Marks, was originally published in Infinity, November 1958.

The Statistomat Pitch, by Chan Davis, was originally published in Infinity, January 1958.

The Eagles Wing is copyright © 2015 by Francis Jarman. Reprinted by permission of the author.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

On behalf of the staff, the contributors, and myself, I’d like to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving. (You may all burst into traditional Thanksgiving carols, should you wish.)

Here’s our holiday lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

The Restavek, by Neil S. Plakcy [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Case of the Tipsy Turkey, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

he Final Course, by Stacy Woodson [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Tiger Island, by Carl Jacobi [short story]

Tiger Island, by Jack Ritchie [serial novel, part 1 of 3]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Baad-hin’jan and the Chickpea, by Anna Tambour [short story]

The Music of the Sphere by Norman Spinrad [short story]

Go To Sleep, My Darling, by Winston K. Marks [short story]

The Statistomat Pitch, by Chan Davis [short story]

The Eagle’s Wing, by Francis Jarman [serial novel, part 1 of 4]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

THE RESTAVEK,

by Neil S. Plakcy

Biff Andromeda was the only Miami private eye who was also a centuries-old genie. His clients were required to sign a contract granting them a specific wish—give me proof that my husband is cheating on me, find my lost dog, track a missing amulet, and so on. There was a great deal of work for a private eye with a foot in both this world and the shadow one, and he had many connections in the community, including Mirlandy Saint-Fenix, a mambo, or voodoo priestess, who specialized in family troubles.

One Monday morning, he was sitting at his office sipping tea from a glass. In the human world, he took the form of a bald man, six-four, with a muscular build and a deep tan. There was a hint of the Oriental around his eyes, accentuated when he smiled. Raki, the squirrel who had adopted him, was curled up in the corner sleeping, but when Mambo Mirlandy opened the glass office door to the outside, Raki scurried for safe haven beneath Biff’s desk.

Mirlandy was tall for a woman, nearly six feet, and she had the regal bearing of someone who had been a queen in a previous life. Her skin was mahogany-colored, her wiry black hair going gray as she neared her seventies.

Biff and Mirlandy had met a few months before when Biff was investigating the theft of a piece of art from a Haitian museum in North Miami. They had recognized a kinship in their mutual ability to see beyond this world.

That morning, she had a meek, dark-skinned young woman with her. In contrast to Mirlandy’s brightly-colored pants suit and African-style headdress, the young woman wore a gray dress that could have been a maid’s uniform. This is Lydie Belizaire, Mirlandy said, in a rolling accent. She need your help to find her lost daughter, Mousseline.

Please, sit down, Biff said.

"You know what is restavek?" Mirlandy asked as they sat on the plush armchairs across from his massive Oriental-style desk.

Biff nodded. In Haiti, wealthier families often took in young children, either orphans or those whose parents couldn’t support them, and gave them food and shelter in exchange for domestic duties. They were called restaveks, or stay-withs, and the fortunate ones were allowed to go to school and treated more like extra kids than slaves.

Lydie, she was hotel maid in Port-Au-Prince, but hotel close, maybe three, four months before earthquake. She have no money, and only job she can get is in Cap-Haitien, where she cannot bring Mousseline. So, she give her to family as restavek.

Lydie began speaking rapidly in Creole. Biff could understand only a few words of the spoken language, though because of its close relationship to French he could figure out more in print. Mirlandy listened, then took the woman’s hand in hers and squeezed.

Then she turned back to Biff. Soon after earthquake, this family leave Haiti for Florida. She pronounced the country’s name Ayiti, as it was in Creole.

Did they take Mousseline with them? he asked.

Lydie think so, yes, though is very hard to find information. Many peoples leave Haiti quickly without records.

The younger woman spoke again, but this time Mirlandy held up her hand and told her to wait. Lydie pay much money to smuggler to come to Florida to look for Mousseline, but cannot find family, or daughter. She ask me for help but I cannot.

What information does she have?

Not much. The family name Jean-Louis. She have address back in Port-Au-Prince, but that neighborhood all gone now.

Why does she think they’re here in Miami? There are big Haitian neighborhoods in Canada, in New York, in other cities.

"The lwa tell me so."

A lwa, Biff knew, was a powerful spirit intermediary in voodoo.

Mirlandy held Lydie’s arm up to Biff. Here, take her hand, you will see.

He stood up and walked around the table to the young woman. He took her limp hand in both of his, closed his eyes, and let the magic work.

Mirlandy stood in front of an altar decorated with lively paintings in the Creole style—bright colors, almost cartoonish humans, angels, and devils. She wore a flowing white dress with lacy sleeves, and a white cap embroidered with what looked like tiny pearls.

She sprinkled cornmeal on the concrete floor, then squatted beside it and drew a symbol with her finger. When she stood again, she began to sway and dance, and Biff heard her repeat the name Erzulie, the lwa, or god, associated with the Virgin Mary in voodoo.

Suddenly, Lydie began to move, awkwardly at first, then more smoothly. Biff knew that this was the time when the lwa possessed the body of the supplicant. Erzulie was one of the gentlest of the lwa, but Lydie’s movements were not gentle at all, and she began shouting in Creole. Mambo Mirlandy looked frightened and began speaking quickly herself. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the possession was over, and Lydie fell to the ground in a heap.

Mambo Mirlandy opened a wire cage and removed a white chicken from it. She pulled a knife from a shelf and slit the chicken’s throat in one swift move. The bird twitched in her hands, and then regurgitated a long worm.

Lydie released Biff’s hand, and the vision disappeared. Biff felt drained by the connection to the dark magic, and once he returned to his seat, he picked up the hand-made brass lamp that rested at one side of his desk. It had been forged more than a thousand years before, by a metalsmith in Constantinople who had a touch of magic in his fingers. It was about twelve inches long, with an ornate, half-moon shaped handle and a long narrow spout. The brass lid had been engraved with an image of the Hagia Sophia cathedral, which added to its mystical power.

He wrapped his hands around it. The brass was always warm to the touch, and as he rubbed the lamp, he felt power and energy move from its reservoir into him.

What did Erzulie tell you? he asked Mirlandy.

She say that the girl come to Florida, that she is close by and in danger. She reached over and took Lydie’s hand again. I talk to many families, asking who they know who have restaveks. I find some, but not Mousseline.

Biff held up his hand to stop her. And you just left them? Biff asked. Like slaves?

She straightened her shoulders. I do not leave any child in such place. I see good families, who feed children and give them clothes, let them go to school. Is charity, not slavery.

Fine. Let’s go back, then. You believe that Mousseline is here in Miami, but you don’t know where, and don’t have any leads.

Just this. She lifted the shopping bag and extracted a worn stuffed dog with one floppy ear. The head had been carefully stitched where the other ear had once been.

He put down the lamp and took the dog from her. He opened his third eye, the metaphysical gate to higher realms, and flexed his fingers and toes, letting the energy flow into him. He had an acute sense of smell, fifty times better than any bloodhound. His vision was well above average; he could read a license plate on a moving car a quarter of a mile away. Like a dog, he could hear up to 100,000 vibrations per second.

He hoped that there would be enough of the girl’s residual energy and love in the stuffed dog to help him detect reverberations of her scent and aura.

I’ll take the case, he said, when he was confident he could sense those faint traces. After Lydie signed the contract, he thanked her and asked if he could keep the dog.

When the two women left, the squirrel came out from beneath the desk and climbed up Biff’s leg, then jumped to the bookcase beside him. You didn’t like her, did you? Biff asked Raki. Too much magic, right?

The squirrel chittered eagerly, jumped from the bookcase to the windowsill, then ran around the office several times. Biff didn’t speak squirrel, though he could, on rare occasions, communicate with the little rodent telepathically. Settle down, he said sternly. I have to concentrate.

There were several Haitian-American neighborhoods in Miami-Dade and Broward counties. After doing some quick research, Biff grabbed the stuffed dog and left the office with Raki on his shoulder. Since he could not transport himself from place to place without the use of a car, he drove his Mini Cooper down to Little Haiti, just north of downtown Miami, because that was where many recent immigrants ended up.

Over the next two days, when he did not have work on other cases, Biff walked up and down each sunbaked street in search of clues. Despite the poverty around him, he sensed a great deal of hope coming from the run-down apartment buildings, the storefronts with signs in Creole, the neatly-dressed dark-skinned children heading to and from school.

He had finely tuned senses, and by focusing on the idea of a restavek and the emotions that would accompany such a life, he was able to find several cases of restavek children, as Mirlandy had. But he had to agree with her; these children were safe and well-cared for, and not in any danger. And none of them were Mousseline.

Raki was fascinated with the stuffed dog. Whenever they were in the car, he sniffed and pawed at the toy, as if he too could read the psychic vibrations from it.

When Biff felt he had exhausted all possibilities in Little Haiti, he turned to North Miami, a neighborhood where many Haitian families had been able to buy homes and start businesses. When he took to the sidewalk, Raki rode on his shoulder, sometimes darting through the trees.

The streets were broader there, lined with all varieties of palm trees, from the towering kings to the squat cabbage palms. The homes were small but well-kept, with hedges of bright red hibiscus and banana trees in side yards. It was more sprawling and harder to navigate, and by Friday afternoon he was exhausted and downcast. He knew the girl was out there, but where?

He decided to sleep in on Saturday morning to recharge his batteries. He woke just before noon to Raki’s angry tapping on the bedroom window with his tiny claws. He let the fuzzy-tailed rodent inside, and Raki scampered down the hall to the kitchen, where Biff left a bowl of water and a tray of candied walnuts on the counter. He’d once tried leaving the bowl on the floor, but Raki reminded him that he was a squirrel, not a bloody dog.

Biff was an ifrit, a type of genie whose power came from his connection to the earth. His on-and-off girlfriend, Farishta, was a marid, a water spirit, and much more powerful than he was. She could summon raging storms with the flick of a finger, move through the sky on a gust of rain-soaked wind, swim through the depths of the ocean like a dolphin. She was sexy, beautiful, and mischievous. He hadn’t seen her for a few weeks; she was off causing trouble somewhere among the warring tribes of Afghanistan.

Maybe Farishta could provide the feminine energy that would help him locate the missing girl. He turned to a portrait painted of Farishta in Constantinople in the 17th century. She wore a belly-baring silk blouse encrusted with tiny diamonds and ballooning harem pants in the same pale pink silk, and her black hair was twisted into an elaborate braid, studded once again with sparkling diamonds.

He focused his third eye on the portrait and sent a message to Farishta.

Ah, my Bivas, you summoned me. At the sound of his age-old name, Biff turned to his right and saw Farishta beside him. She was as lovely as ever, her abundant black curls in tendrils around her heart-shaped face, her sable eyes as piercing as ever. She wore the tight-fitting harem pants she favored, and what looked like a sports bra covered with a filmy blouse. The outfit accentuated her curves and Biff felt a wave of lust wash over him.

She stepped up on her toes to kiss him on the lips, then backed off and handed him a chilled bottle of Italian prosecco. He put the bottle aside, took her in his arms and kissed her, until suddenly Farishta pulled away and screamed.

Raki! Biff said. You know Farishta hates it when you jump into her hair.

The squirrel’s long, fluffy gray and brown tail was all that was visible as Raki burrowed deep into Farishta’s curls. Biff grabbed the tail and extracted him, as Farishta shook her finger and said, Naughty squirrel!

He loves you, Biff said. Raki squirmed out of Biff’s grip and scurried across the room, leaping from the floor to the chest to the door frame. As soon as he was out of the room, Biff closed the door, and returned his attention to Farishta. She had already opened the prosecco and poured them two glasses. He twined his arm around hers and lifted his glass to his lips, focusing on her deep ebony eyes.

Farishta put down her glass and tugged at Biff’s. He tossed his glass into the air and pointed at it as it tumbled. In a flash, it exploded into a spray of multi-colored fireworks. Always the showman, Farishta said, as they fell into bed together.

* * * *

When they woke the next morning, curled together in Biff’s bed, he stroked Farishta’s black curls. I have some work to do today, he said. I could use your help.

She yawned and stretched. But it is Sunday. The day of rest in the western world.

He sat up and explained the situation to her, and by the time he was finished she was ready to go. Come, come, she said. Do you know where to begin?

Farishta was a water spirit, so she could command the moisture in the humid Florida air to create a tiny whirlwind that would spirit her—and Biff, if he was holding her hand—to wherever she wished to go.

I guess we should start in Little Haiti again, he said.

She shook her head. No, you have already been there, you said. Where have you not looked?

He thought for a moment. When I worked with Mambo Mirlandy the last time, she mentioned that many of the earthquake refugees had landed in Miramar—far west of here, on the edge of the Everglades.

Then we shall go there.

He picked up the stuffed dog and she took his hand and commanded the whirlwind. Just before they left the house, Raki appeared and jumped onto Biff’s shoulder. The three of them sped west, above the broad strip of I-595, which linked the western suburbs to the urban core of Fort Lauderdale. They landed at a complex of buildings called the Miramar Town Center. So, we are here, she said. You are the detective. Detect.

Raki jumped down from his shoulder and scampered up a palm tree. He looked at Farishta in her harem pants and smiled at the memory of what the harem had been like in the time of the great pashas, the overwhelming sense of female bodies close together, the trickle of water in the baths, the scene of perfume in the air.

Bivas! Farishta said. He realized that his body had reacted to those memories. Cover yourself or we will cause a scene!

He quickly adjusted himself inside his baggy shorts and explained to Farishta, I had a vision of a harem. I wonder if this girl could be held somewhere with other women.

A modern harem would not be so elegant as in the old times. And there would be much more testosterone, from the constant flow of men.

She licked her index finger and held it up to the wind. This way, she said. She called for Raki, and when he returned to them, she took Biff’s hand and they entered the whirlwind, moving slowly past housing developments so new the paint had not yet faded in the bright Florida sun, along busy streets that had been mere pathways through sawgrass a few years before.

They kept going west, closer and closer to the edge of the Everglades, until Farishta landed in front of a house in the old Cracker style, probably a farmhouse until the owners had sold their land to developers. No gated entrance, no surveillance. The grass near the street was flattened and brown, the result of many cars driving and parking.

They stood in the shelter of a palm apple tree, surrounded by its bitter, yellow-green fruit. One of us needs to go inside, Biff said. To make sure the girl is there, before we call the police.

Farishta looked at the squirrel. You wanted to come with us, she said. Now it is time for you to earn your walnuts.

Raki chittered eagerly. She held him in the palm of her hand and communicated with him telepathically. Biff envied her that ability; sometimes he was completely baffled by the little rodent.

The squirrel jumped from her hand and scampered across the dead grass to the house. He clambered up a downspout, then ducked into an open window.

How are you going to know when he finds something? Biff asked.

He will come back. She turned to him. We are a good team, you and I. Think of the fun we could have together if you gave up this silly obsession with helping humans and joined me in making mischief.

It’s not a silly obsession, he said. You know the rules that govern our kind. I am required to grant wishes, just as you are required to disrupt evil and cause trouble to the wicked.

And is that not what you do? she asked. Just under a different disguise.

Biff thought about how much fun it would be to travel the world with Farishta on a cloud of mist, joining their powers. But in the end, they were two different spirits—he loved his domestic comforts, the connection to the earth that grew as he remained in one place. He even liked the squirrel’s company.

There he is, Farishta said, pointing to the third-floor roof, where Raki was crawling gingerly across a rusted gutter that hung from a single nail. With a powerful thrust of his back legs, he jumped from the roof to the topmost branches of the pond apple, shaking loose a piece of rotten fruit that dropped to the ground in front of Biff and splattered, only narrowly missing the tasseled point of his silk slipper.

The squirrel scampered down the tree trunk and launched himself onto Biff’s shoulder, chittering rapidly. Farishta listened, then nodded. The girl is alone in a third-floor room, she said. But there are many other people in the house, men and women.

He’s sure that’s the right girl? Biff asked.

Yes, yes, I described her to him. She crossed her arms over her chest, the filmy sleeves of her blouse fluttering in the breeze. And now? she asked.

If we call the police, they’ll put Mousseline in state custody. I’m sure she has no immigration papers, and if her mother claims her, they’ll both be sent back to Haiti.

Where there is no future for either of them, Farishta said. So we must remove the girl and return her to her mother before alerting the police.

Biff pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his shorts and called Mambo Mirlandy. He arranged to have her bring Lydie to the house in Miramar. Then he called his friend Jimmy Stein, a police detective who worked in the unincorporated part of Miami-Dade County around Biff’s office.

You do know it’s Sunday, don’t you? Jimmy asked when he answered the phone.

You’re Jewish, Biff said. Your Sabbath was yesterday. And all I need from you is a contact, somebody in the Miramar police. He explained the situation, leaving out Mousseline and her mother.

"If you’re talking human trafficking, you don’t need local cops. You need either state or Federal.