The Unbelievable Mr Brownstone Omnibus Read online

  James snorted. “I’m sure you found a way to make money off this shit somehow.”

  “Not saying I didn’t, but no one got hurt. Unlike last time you played a little joke on me, where it ended in gunfire.”

  “Can’t prove that was me.”

  Tyler inclined his head. “Don’t give a shit. Just saying, the ball’s now in your court for a little return practical joke, and that shit better not involve you sending thugs here who don’t know the score.”

  James grunted. “I’ll make sure to repay you in kind, asshole.”

  Tyler’s smile faded. “Whatever. I’ll just enjoy this while I can, and I still made a shitload of money.” He poured a beer and grinned as he set it in front of James. “On the house, Brownstone. Consider it your fee. I’ll even give you five percent off whatever info you came crawling here to beg for.”

  James leaned forward and lowered his voice. “This is sensitive shit, and I know you hate my ass, but I also know you’ve got your own code, and you won’t fuck me over if I pay you what you need.”

  Something approaching respect appeared on the other man’s face. “Okay, I might be able to help you, but only if it doesn’t mess with any of my other rules.” He finished pouring and set the beer in front of James.

  “I need you to point me at someone who can be funny and filthy at the same time.”

  Tyler blinked. “Come again?”

  “Like performance on a stage, but not just funny and filthy. They also have to be good at poetry and shit.”

  Tyler stared at James like some Oriceran telepathy beast had shredded his mind. “You want a foul-mouthed and funny poet?”

  James grunted. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “And you came to me to ask this?” He continued to stare, waiting for Brownstone to drop the punch line.

  “You claim to be the king of information. Here’s the chance to prove it.” James took a sip of the beer. Shit tasted watered-down. Big surprise.

  Tyler crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in deep concentration. “Give me a second. This isn’t the kind of shit people normally ask me.”

  “Make it under ten minutes. I don’t want those women coming after me.” He glanced at the video camera again.

  “Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.” Tyler pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I know someone.” He grabbed his phone out of his pocket. “One second.”

  He pounded out a text, a pensive look on his face. A few seconds later his phone chimed with a response.

  “Anna Forsythe,” Tyler announced. He rattled off a phone number and an address. “She’s expecting you. She says she’ll be home for the next few hours.”

  James grimaced. “A woman? But this shit has to be dirty. I don’t know if I want to be talking about sex jokes with some strange woman.”

  “Get with the century, Brownstone.” Tyler rolled his eyes. “Trust me. You want filthy, funny, and poetic? You’re not doing better than this woman, and that’ll be two hundred and fifty dollars, Brownstone.”

  James pulled out his phone and completed a quick money transfer. His dealings with Tyler during the gambling events had left him more than familiar with the appropriate addresses.

  Tyler smiled. “Pleasure doing business with you, Brownstone.”

  The bounty hunter shrugged and started toward the hallway leading to the back door. “When they come back in, just tell them I’m in the bathroom. That should keep them here a while more.”

  Tyler waggled his fingers at James. “Bye, Brownstone. And fuck you, as always.”

  The bounty hunter gave him a friendly wave. His quick retreat brought him to the back of the building, and he sprinted around the corner and toward the spot where his F-350 was parked on the street.

  “It’s Brownstone,” a woman shouted as he reached his vehicle. “He’s trying to get away.”

  The entire pack of women pivoted as a single unit, all squealing.

  James threw open the door and jumped in the driver’s seat. He slammed the key into the ignition and turned the engine over. The engine roared to life, and he screeched away from the writhing mass of feminine desire charging him.

  Fuck that. I’d rather face Oriceran monsters or magical hitmen any day.

  James kept checking his mirrors. Not for the typical assassins or thugs, but for desperate groupies who might be chasing after him at high speed.

  Fuck. If they got my license plate number, they’ll start harassing me at home. Shay’s gonna kick the crap out of them.

  He’d play it by ear, but new plates might be in his future.

  Twenty minutes later, James was no longer convinced he’d need to throw his truck off the road and barrel through some abandoned industrial zone to escape a groupie. He was ready to risk a call to Peyton.

  I need to make sure none of that video of them hanging all over me gets out.

  “Good morning, Mr. Brownstone,” the hacker answered. “Who do you need me to find today?”

  “The second-best hacker after you.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve got something I need handled and I need someone good who isn’t you.”

  “What the hell?” Peyton replied, all the humor drained from his voice. “Are you screwing with me?”

  “Nope. I’ll pay you for the referral, but it just can’t be you.”

  Peyton snorted. “You know what? I’m going to be real honest here, man. I’m offended. I can’t believe you’d call me up and ask me to find you a hacker other than me. I’ve offered you nothing but good work, and Shay can speak to what a badass keyboard warrior I am.”

  James grunted. The call was going about as well as he expected. “I don’t doubt your skills, Peyton. Calm the fuck down.”

  “Then why am I getting sent to the bench, coach?”

  “This involves a sensitive matter. Something I don’t want Shay to know about, and I’m not gonna sit here and pretend what you do for me doesn’t get back to Shay.”

  Peyton let out a long sigh. “Shit. Okay, fair enough.” He managed a pained chuckled. “Obviously, you aren’t as afraid of her as I am.”

  “Nah, I’m afraid enough, which is why I have to do this shit without her finding out.”

  “Sorry I had a hissy fit back there. Just have a lot of pride in my work.”

  “No problem,” James responded. “So can you help me?”

  “I’ll send you some contact info.” Peyton chuckled. “But, since we’ve already been over it, you do know that I’m going to have to tell Shay that you even asked about this.”

  “Sure, but it’s not the same thing as you telling her everything or the exact details. I’m not stupid enough to think she doesn’t have a few secrets from me. I imagine she’ll understand.”

  Peyton laughed. “You still don’t understand women, Brownstone.”

  “Some shit is too complicated to ever understand.”

  “Okay, sending you the contact info now. These people aren’t going to give you their names until they’ve done their own checks, though. Just so you know.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Talk to you later.” Peyton hung up, but James’ phone buzzed with his message.

  Guess I have some time for some more messages before I hit Anna Forsythe’s place.

  13

  James’ phone buzzed as he waited at a red light. He was only minutes away from Forsythe’s house, and the upscale neighborhood filled with townhouses and condos left him confused. Anyone who knew Tyler shouldn’t be living in an area like this. It didn’t fit.

  He checked his phone. His earlier messages to the hackers were all the same. He hadn’t explained who he was, but had requested a working relationship. Being able to figure out who he was from his phone number alone seemed like a good minimum skills check.

  Two of the response messages noted they were interested in working with the “great James Brownstone,” but the third kindled his interest.

  You’re really that straight up? This is so obvi
ous I can’t help but think it’s a trap. Use the link at the end of this message today at 4:00 PM on the dot, and we’ll talk.

  James frowned. The link would probably make his phone self-destruct or some shit if he tried to do anything clever. He had plenty of time until the deadline, so he’d leave it alone until then.

  The light turned green, and he sped down the road. A few minutes of travel brought him to a quaint light-blue townhouse nestled in a row of other homes. He parked the truck and frowned. Everything about this place suggested the occupant was not a woman who could help him win a filthy limerick contest held at a bar.

  Maybe I’m thinking about this wrong. It’s probably some college woman. Shit, the Professor is a professor.

  James walked up to the front door and pressed the doorbell. He waited, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

  The door opened, and a beautiful blonde woman stood on the other side. Her silver glasses, high chignon, stylish gray suit jacket and matching long gray skirt gave her an elegant, professional vibe with a touch of sexiness. Her smooth features made her look young, but something about the knowing look in her eyes made her seem older.

  A few seconds passed before James realized her irises were bright red. No red lines or thickened blood vessels spiked through the whites of her eyes, suggesting the color was natural and not the product of alcohol or drugs.

  “Anna Forsythe?” James rumbled.

  The woman brought a hand to her glasses and touched the side of the frame, a curious glint in her eyes.

  “When Tyler told me there was someone who could use my help, I didn’t expect you, of all people.” She had a faint accent, but James couldn’t place it.

  “You know who I am?”

  Anna gestured inside. “I would hope you realize by now that you’re rather famous, Mr. Brownstone.”

  “Not my plan,” James mumbled. “It’s damned inconvenient.” He stepped into the house.

  A minimalist design aesthetic marked the living room, with an emphasis on airy spaces and white furniture. James hated white furniture. It was too easy to spot dust and grime.

  Anna closed the door behind her and pointed to the couch. “Please feel free to take a seat.”

  Now that he was sitting, James noticed a row of photographs of men lining the opposite wall, some young, some old. While the pictures on the right end of the row had obviously been taken within recent years, the age of the photos increased as he looked at the left, at least judging by the clothes and the permanent shift to black and white. Faded daguerreotypes gave way to small portraits on the end.

  James pointed at the paintings. “What’s with those?”

  “All brilliant men of great comedic talent. The paintings include some performers from the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. I’m surprised you don’t recognize some of the later ones.”

  “I don’t watch or listen to a lot of comedy.”

  Anna smirked. “I’m beginning to understand why you need my help, Mr. Brownstone. I’ll note I have an interest in men of great comedic talent.”

  He shrugged. “Not a comedian, and I never claimed to be anything but a bounty hunter.”

  “Of course. Would you like some tea?”

  James shook his head. “No, thanks.”

  The woman all but glided to the other end of her couch, her every step elegant and sensual in a way that confused James. He might not understand women, but he knew when a woman was attractive. He normally didn’t react so strongly, though.

  Fuck. Does this count as cheating on Shay? I can’t even ask her without pissing her off.

  Anna sat down and crossed her legs. She laced her fingers together, staring at James with her red eyes.

  “By the way, what’s with the contacts?”

  “My eyes, you mean?”

  “Yeah. It’s just a weird choice.”

  A thin smile followed. “This is my natural eye color.” She tilted her head, exposing her creamy neck.

  James shook his head, trying to concentrate. What the fuck was going on?

  He shot off the couch at a realization. “You’re not human.”

  Anna let out a sigh. “That, I suppose, is a matter of definition.”

  “You’re some sort of succubus or some shit like that, aren’t you?”

  “Are you familiar with the leanan sídhe?”

  Huh. Maybe she’s a regular and knows about the Bard of Filth competition.

  “The bar? Yeah, I go there all the time.”

  Anna laughed. “There’s a bar called that? How adorable. Let me put it another way. Do you know what the bar is named after?”

  “Yeah. A type of Celtic fairy. Kind of like a succubus, but they inspire artists, and most legends say that inspiration ends up costing the artist their lives. They live bright and inspired but short lives.”

  “I could quibble with the details, but that’s accurate enough.”

  James grunted. “You’re saying you’re a leanan sídhe?”

  “I don’t like calling myself that, but that’s the name humans gave my kind.”

  A leanan sídhe is gonna help me win the contest at the Leanan Sídhe. If this isn’t a sign I don’t know what is, but I still need to be careful.

  James shook his head. “And you live in Los Angeles?”

  Anna shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I? It is a city filled with men desperate for artistic inspiration. And, oh, I’ve not been here long, only forty or fifty years.” She laughed. “I do love this place, and everything’s become so much easier with the full return of magic.”

  James locked his attention on the woman, half expecting her to jump on him and suck out his soul.

  You better not have fucking set me up again, Tyler. I’ll bust my way out of Hell just to track your ass down for revenge.

  “What do you mean?” James inquired.

  “I’ve been alive a very long time, Mr. Brownstone. Before, when most magic was gone from Earth, it was hard. Imagine always feeling like I was on the verge of starvation, and always having to hide my nature from suspicious people who’d destroy me without understanding me.”

  James shrugged. “So, what…you went and inspiration-fucked a bunch of men and took their lives in exchange? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  “Something like that, yes.” Anna held up a finger. “But if I may correct a misconception I’m sure you have, I never offered my gifts to any man without explaining the cost first. All freely choose inspiration over a long life. I’ve never misrepresented myself to any of the men I’ve helped. I might have hidden my nature from the common angry peasant, but I’m not a monster preying on innocents.”

  “Fair enough.” The bounty hunter stood and shook his head. “But I’m not fucking you for inspiration. I already have a girlfriend, and she’s possessive and has magic knives.”

  Anna burst out laughing. James frowned and waited for her to stop. It took longer than he expected.

  She leaned forward and patted the couch. “Sit, Mr. Brownstone. I can assure you, even if I were so inclined, you’re not my type. Also, I’ll have you know that it’s much easier these days. The price of my inspiration is less dangerous. A man can have his cake and eat it, now. He just has to put aside the occasional weekend or two for exhaustion.”

  “So you don’t kill people anymore?”

  “I never killed people. They chose to sacrifice one thing for another, and I only explained the situation so you’ll stop thinking of me as a horrible monster.”

  James grunted. “Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not exactly a guy who should be complaining about people being monsters. But I don’t get why Tyler sent me to you. He must have known I wouldn’t trade sex for information, inspired or otherwise.”

  “Ah, but you don’t have to.” Anna gestured again to the photos and paintings. “As you can see, I have a type, and you have to understand what it means to inspire. I’m the muse, but I didn’t put thoughts into their heads. Their own brilliance generated it. I j
ust fed that brilliance. After spending hundreds of years around men of comedic genius, it’s hard to not have absorbed some of the knowledge.” She smiled. “I can give you advice rather than inspiration.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “A favor in the future.” Anna held a pale hand. “I’m not involved in any strange criminal activities, but on occasion, because of my nature I can be targeted by unfortunate individuals. It’d be helpful if I could call upon the Scourge of Harriken in such a case.”

  James nodded slowly. He worried about having to explain who Anna was if Shay ever found out, but he had trouble being outraged at a woman who’d done nothing worse than survive. Plenty of artists turned to booze or drugs for inspiration and ended up dead. At least the fairy woman guaranteed results.

  “Okay. Deal.”

  Anna clapped her hands together. “Wonderful.” She inhaled deeply, and a warm smile spread over her face. “Tyler gave me an overview of what you were looking for, but it wasn’t clear to me the exact context.”

  “I owe someone else a favor,” James explained. “And this favor involves me participating in a dirty limerick contest at a bar.”

  Anna giggled. “Oh, I love you, Mr. Brownstone. Everything about you is delightful.”

  “I hate this shit. I don’t get limericks. I just don’t get what’s funny about them, so I can’t think of new ones. I have to, though. There’s no way I can get out of this contest.”

  “Let me ask you something. What is humor to you?”

  He frowned. “Jokes and shit.”

  “But what makes them funny?”

  James shrugged. “I don’t know. They just are.”

  Anna wagged a finger. “Nothing ‘just is.’ Now, there are various types of comedy, but since you’re interested in dirty limericks, let’s focus on wordplay. I’d argue that the fundamental basis underlying humor is a betrayal of expectations.”

  “Betrayal of expectations?”

  “Yes. Although someone might anticipate where a good joke is going, the best humor surprises a person. People’s minds crave order, logic, progression. A good joke tricks that by taking advantage of that natural order.” She laughed. “Take a pathetic joke. Why did the chicken cross the road?”