Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Winner of almost any fantasy-horror award of his era, Brian Lumley continues to spin yarns after a World Fantasy Award, British Fantasy Award, and many others. His NECROSCOPE series has generated a long-lasting RPG world of vampires. But the Cthulhu Mythos was, and still is, his first love.

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Psychosphere

By Lumley, Brian

Tor Books

Copyright © 2001 Lumley, Brian
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780312851910
Chapter 1
 
Two pairs of eyes watched Richard Garrison and Vicki Maler leave their holiday residence and disappear into the maze of steep narrow streets leading down into the heart of the Greek island village; two pairs, neither one aware of the other. One pair belonged to a thief, the other to an assassin.
The latter, Joe Black by name, was seated at a table on the raised patio of the taverna where the pair he watched normally breakfasted—a taverna they were obliged to pass on any excursion away from their accommodation—whose open-air eating area presented Black with a distant but unobstructed view of the door to their courtyard, seen above rising tiers of flat white rooftops. The village, dropping down into a valley or bay, seemed to have been built on much the same lines as an auditorium or amphitheatre; for which kindness Black gave the ancient architects a generous ten. It made his task as observer that much easier.
Black wore Lederhosen and braces, a wide-brimmed straw hat and an open-neck shirt loud with red and yellow flowers. He was not German—despite his dress, his fat face and cigar—but Cockney: the hired hand of a middling Mafia boss, Carlo Vicenti, who once owned a quarter-share of one of London’s less reputable and far more profitable casinos. Richard Garrison now owned that quarter-share, a fact which irked Vicenti more than a trifle. Hence Joe Black’s presence here in Lindos, Rhodes, the Aegean.
Black was not alone on Rhodes: a second hit-man, his brother Bert (“Bomber Bert Black,” to his dubious circle of friends), waited in Rhodes town itself. Bert was the “hard” part of the team on this occasion. That is to say, his was the hand which would directly terminate Garrison’s life. Brother Joe’s role was simply to tell him when to do it.
Just a minute or so after 11:00, the subjects of Black’s covert surveillance emerged from an alley into the narrow “main” street, crossing it to climb wooden stairs to the breakfast patio. He waited for them to seat themselves close by, waited again until they engaged the waiter’s attention and started to give him their orders, then folded his shielding newspaper and left.
He glanced only once at the pair as he went, his eyes lingering momentarily on the black-as-night lenses and frames which Garrison wore. A blind man, this Garrison, allegedly. Black snorted as he descended the stairs to the street and made his way towards the open village square and coach-and-taxi booking office. “Huh!” The damnedest blind man he had ever seen! And his mind went back to the first time he ever came into contact with Garrison…
That had been at the Ace of Clubs, where on occasion Black had used to do bouncer (or “floor attendant” as the dealers and their minders preferred it). The “blind” man had come in one night with his woman, also blind, the first time they had ever visited the place. The last, too, if Black’s memory served him correctly. As patrons, anyway. He snorted again: “Huh!” Well, and hadn’t once been enough?
That had been, oh, six or seven months ago, but Black remembered it like yesterday…
…Remembered Garrison buying one large pink chip worth fifty pounds sterling, and the way he had casually crossed to the central roulette wheel to toss the chip onto the table’s zero. And how with the next spin the ball had dropped, as if pre-ordained, directly into that very slot—how in fact it had fallen into that slot twice in succession. And how Garrison had let the spoils of his first incredible gamble ride!
The gasps of shock, astonishment and appreciation that went up then had been the summons which brought the boss, the raven-haired Carlo Vicenti himself, hurrying up to the table, his face darkening under brows already black as thunder. “Mr, er, Garrison? Yes, your custom was recommended. The club’s misfortune, it appears.” He forced a smile. “Well, sir, you have won a great deal of money, in fact a fortune, and—”
“And I want to let it ride one last time,” Garrison had unsmilingly cut him short.
“On the zero?” Vicenti’s jaw had dropped.
Garrison had frowned thoughtfully, only half-seriously, almost mockingly. “Certainly, on the zero, why not?”
“But sir, you have already won over sixty thousand pounds, and—”
“Sixty-four thousand and eight hundred, to be exact,” Garrison had cut him short again, “—including my stake, of course. But please do go on.”
Vicenti had leaned towards him then, staring up into his dark, heavy lenses and stating in a lowered tone, but perfectly audibly, “Sir, unbeknown to you, the operator of this wheel has already been obliged to ask the house for permission to cover your second bet. Normally, you understand we would have a limit of one thousand pounds on this wheel. And besides, the zero cannot possibly come up a third time.”
Garrison had stood rock still, apparently frozen to the floor by something Vicenti had said. His answer, when finally it came, was delivered in a voice steady, firm and chill: “Am I to understand that this wheel is fixed?”
Vicenti was astounded. “What? I said no such thing! Of course the wheel is not fixed. I did not mean that the—”
“Then it can ‘possibly’ spin a third zero?”
“But certainly, sir—except it is most unlikely, and—”
“Unlikely or not,” Garrison cut in for the third time, “I wish to bet.”
A half-apologetic shrug. “We cannot cover it. And sir—” this time Vicenti’s voice had been almost conspiratorial, wheedling, “—aren’t you being just a little frivolous with your money?”
“Not with mine,” and now Garrison smiled broadly. “With yours, perhaps, but not mine. I only started with fifty pounds.”
All of this Joe Black had witnessed from a position close at hand. Also the way Vicenti had turned an explosive purple at Garrison’s last remark. At that moment Joe had known, whatever the apparent outcome of this confrontation, that the little Sicilian would take a terrible revenge on the blind man—in one way or another. The one thing Vicenti had never been able to stand was to be laughed at—and here he stood, an object of ridicule. Certainly in his own eyes. Possibly in the eyes of half of the club’s regular clientele, who now gathered about the table in various attitudes ranging between awe and delight. In fact it was mainly Garrison’s lucky streak which had fired their imaginations, not Vicenti’s discomfiture; but the Sicilian had taken their smiles, their subdued laughter, chuckles and excited whispers as being derogatory to himself.
“Wait!” he had snapped. “I need to confer.” And the wheel had remained stationary for a full five minutes until he returned.
“Well?” Garrison had remained cool, smiling—at least with his mouth, for of course his eyes had been invisible.
And now Vincenti had seemed eager that everyone should hear him. “Mr—er, Garrison?—I am a part-owner of this club. Indeed I own one quarter of all its assets. Even so, I personally could barely cover tonight’s losses. Your winnings, that...