Grimm Tales (11 page)

Skyler Hobbs and the Magic Solution

By Evan Lewis

The author wishes to thank his good friends Jake and Willy Grimm for penning an earlier version of this tale, called “The Elves and the Shoemaker.”

Skyler Hobbs peered down his long nose at the little man seated next to me on the sofa.

“I must advise you, Mr. Schumacher, that my good friend here does not wish me to take your case.”

Arnie Schumacher, owner-operator of Arnie's Electronics, turned to goggle at me, his eyes huge and watery through thick spectacles. “But why? I have not even told you my problem.”

I shrugged. I'd voiced no objection, but Hobbs had ferreted it out just the same. That's the trouble with befriending a man who thinks he's the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes.

“The doctor,” Hobbs said, nodding at me, “feels you have siphoned customers from his computer repair business by undercutting his prices. Do you deny the charge?”

Arnie looked bewildered.

I handed him one of my business cards:
Jason Wilder–Computer Doctor
.

“Don't mind Hobbs,” I said. “It's his idea of a parlor trick. Probably spotted kilobytes under your fingernails. Still, he's right. How can you afford to work so cheap?”

Arnie looked from me to Hobbs and wrung his hands. “Because, gentlemen, I am not really working. The items repair themselves—as if by magic!”

I stood, ready to usher him out. Dealing with Hobbs was all the insanity I could handle.

But Hobbs had that gleam in his eye. The one that said,
Aha! The game is afoot.
He took his pipe and tobacco from their place on the mantel and settled into his armchair. “You have my full attention, sir. Pray continue.”

The story was quickly told. Arnie had opened shop in the sixties, fixing toasters and blenders, and graduated to TV and stereo equipment. He'd done all right until the past few years, when everything became computerized. Now most of the work was in computer repair. But his eyesight was failing, technology was passing him by, and he'd found himself up to his neck in unrepaired equipment and unpaid bills.

“Though it shamed me greatly,” he said, “I was about to declare bankruptcy, when the magic started. One morning I came downstairs—my wife and I share a small apartment above the shop—and went down to the basement, where I have my workshop. Everything in the place had been fixed!”

Hobbs' eyes shone. “And you attribute this to magic.”

“My wife, she thinks it must be angels. Me, I just don't know. But my business was saved. The faster work came in, the faster it repaired itself. I felt guilty taking money for nothing, so I lowered prices, and customers came in droves.”

“Assuming we believe any of this,” I said, feeling snarky, “why come to Hobbs? Sounds to me like you've got it made.”

“I do,” Arnie said. “I do. But it is not right. A man should work, and receive fair compensation for his labors. I come to you, Mr. Hobbs, to discover the truth of the matter. Will you help?”

Hobbs made an O of his mouth and blew out a large smoke ring. Pursing his lips, he sent several smoke bullets through the target.

“Mr. Schumacher, I find this matter to be of the greatest interest. The doctor and I will be only too happy to assist you.”

Happy. That was me. Too happy for words.

* * *

That night, Hobbs and I hid behind stacks of boxes in Schumacher's basement. Hobbs had insisted we needed bait, so despite my objections we'd hauled a dozen unfixed computers from my own shop and stacked them on the long workbench.

As we waited in the darkness, I whispered, “All right, Hobbs, you've put me off long enough. I want to know what's going on.”

“You observed, of course, that this establishment is located next to a Wells Fargo Bank.”

“Sure,” I lied. All I'd noticed was the MacDonald's across the street. I could almost smell Big Macs.

“Is it not possible,” he said, “that our client's late night visitors are attempting to tunnel into the bank and break into its vault?”

“Maybe. But if that were so, we'd have seen evidence of digging.”

“Not if the thieves are exceedingly clever. In any case…”

As Hobbs paused, I heard slight sounds from the floor above. The click of a key in a lock, and the creak of footsteps.

“In any case,” he said again, “we shall soon know. I am quite certain our quarry has arrived. Now, Watson, would be the time to produce your trusty revolver.”

“Wilder,” I whispered. “And you know damn well I don't own a gun.”

But I began to wish I did. The creaking had moved to the stairs, and a moment later the basement door opened. Fluorescent ceiling lights blinked on, and we crouched lower behind the boxes.

“Damn!” said a hushed voice. “The geezer's got a lot of new shit.”

“Cool,” came the reply. “We'll make a haul on this.”

As the voices moved to the center of the room, I shifted to a crack between the boxes.

Two teenage boys in ratty T-shirts and low-slung jeans stood at the workbench, examining the repair tags.

“Dibs on this HP,” one kid said. “All it needs is a network interface.”

“I'll start with this laptop,” said the other.

Both selected tools from the table and set to work. These didn't look like bank robbers to me.

I turned to Hobbs and raised an eyebrow. He merely nodded. If this performance surprised him he did a great job of hiding it.

We watched a while longer, seeing nothing but quick and competent repair work.

Finally Hobbs stood, pushing the boxes aside, and aimed a bony finger at the two astonished boys.

“Stop!” he said in a commanding voice. “Dr. Watson here is armed, and if you attempt to flee he will surely shoot you.”

I shook my head. “Wilder,” I said, “and I'm not shooting anybody. But I would like to know what the hell's going on.”

* * *

Next morning, we sat in a plush private office above the flagship store of the worldwide mega-chain, Schumacher's Shoes. Facing us across an enormous desk was a beetle-browed man bearing a distinct resemblance to our client. The brass nameplate on his desk read
Marvin Schumacher, President and CEO
.

Though Marvin looked younger than Arnie, his hair was thinning, and he'd tried to cover it with the silliest comb-over this side of Donald Trump. His whole office, in fact, seemed modeled after the boardroom on
The Apprentice
. He fixed us with a Trump-like scowl.

“So you know,” he said.

“I know,” Hobbs said, “that you hired those lads to help your brother. And I believe I know why. But before determining a course of action, I wish to hear the tale from your own lips.”

“You've met Arnie,” Marvin said, “so maybe you understand. He's always been too proud for his own good. Won't accept charity, even from his own flesh and blood. I called my old high school, got the names of those computer geeks and gave them a key. You know the rest.”

“You chose well,” Hobbs said. “My friend here has inspected their work, and judged it to be excellent.”

Marvin nodded. “Arnie had a sweet deal going, until you stepped in. Any chance you'd accept a…
retainer
, to let the magic continue?”

Hobbs leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “The question I must ask, Mr. Schumacher, is this: Precisely how much is your brother's happiness worth?”

* * *

The apartment above Arnie's Electronics was shabby but clean, a description that also served for Arnie's wife. We sat at their kitchen table pretending to drink weak, tepid coffee from cracked mugs.

“I still can't believe they were bank robbers,” Arnie said. “I saw you leading those guys away, and they looked like kids. I mean, who but kids would wear their jeans belted down around their knees?”

“All part of their disguise,” Hobbs said, “and no small factor in their ability to elude the authorities. Those desperados are wanted in seven states, and you have performed a great service in bringing about their capture. And it will please you to know they have already received new suits of clothing—bright orange prison uniforms.”

Hobbs hefted a large suitcase onto the table and popped it open. Inside were bound stacks of crisp hundred dollar bills.

“The reward offered by the FBI,” he said, “totaled one million dollars. It is yours, with the compliments of your government.”

Arnie stared, his mouth working but emitting no sound. His wife began to cry.

I felt my own eyes welling up, and steadied myself with a swallow of bad coffee.

Arnie found his voice. “A million dollars. You may call it justice, Mr. Hobbs, but I still call it magic. This time, however, I will not complain. But you and your friend did all the work. You must take half.”

I choked on my coffee. By the time I could breathe, Hobbs was already shaking his head.

“Your generosity is overwhelming,” he said, “but we must decline. The by-laws of the Consulting Detectives Union are quite strict in cases of this sort. The most we are allowed to accept is one percent.”

* * *

Two weeks later, we got a postcard from Hawaii, first stop on the Schumachers' round-the-world cruise. Arnie was officially retired, and shedding the skin of his old life.

Things were going well for me, too. With my share of the ten grand, I'd hired the two computer geeks to work part-time at my shop. Business was booming.

“Quite satisfactory,” Hobbs said. “Everyone appears to be living happily ever after.”

“Just like a fairy tale,” I said. “It's almost enough to make me believe in magic.”

Hobbs snorted and turned to find his pipe.

I just smiled. Hobbs' head was swelled enough already, so I had to be careful with compliments, but I was pretty sure Arnie was right. There had been magic at work.

The magic of Skyler Hobbs.

Interview with the Pram Driver

By B. Nagel

When I first think of fairy tales, I think of the princess stories, which have been made into cartoon movies. Then I remember the folk tale craze of the nineteenth century that brought us the
Grimms Marchen
. But I wanted to do something different, so I looked outside the German canon for inspiration.

* * *

See here, young woman. Where have you been since the evening of the twenty-first of last month? Your dress is torn, you're muddy to the knees down, and your face is tan as a nut though we're in midwinter. Can you explain yourself?

Well, I could tell you what did me to the deep you see, but you wouldn't believe it. Nary a word. There I am, hoping, praying, dressing out and making the rounds, looking for a bit of work to put some money by, what with my Albert blowing his down the pub 'fore he gets it. Yes, I tell the darling couple, I know a nursery like the back of my hand. Two of my own blighters at home. No truth there, but my sister had one once. What's to know?

And what's to happen on the first day? Not a thing, I think. We'll stay in the room and I'll change the nappies and straighten up the house a bit. Catch forty winks. A bite to eat for lunch. Easy as pie. Only the lady's a liar, same as me. That's no baby. Babies you wrap up and coo at. They sleep all day and when you put them down for the night, it's rock-a-bye, good night, and straight on until morning.

This one, he doesn't know naps come bigger than half an hour. If you hold him, he's throwing his hands about like a pigeon and bragging loud as you like. If you set him down, he's scooting away into corners and under the furniture. You'd think him Captain Cook off to discover the cannibals. I'd give my right hand to have him back though.

Hist now. Stop with the runaround and give up the details of the twenty-first.

I'm getting to the evening part, hold onto your tall round cap. It's like I was telling you, now. The boy-child's run me ragged all day, her Ladyship sitting at the window the whole time pretending to darn a sock. “When will he be home,” she says. Like I know. What I do know is she put the same stitch in three times and nowhere close to the hole.

When the street lighters come out, the front door opens and shuts. It's himself come home finally. She jumps from the window and leaves the sock behind. She lights into him something fierce. I can't say what they were on about since the walls are so thick and the baby crying, but she had a hold of the horse's tail. Loud footsteps leave down the hall to the back of the house, so I open the door to hear better.

Now they're in the kitchen. I don't think they're even screaming English anymore. Something hits the wall. It gets louder then.

If you ask me, it was another woman. Happens, ya know. I took the boy out in the pram to give the grown ones space to work things out. We went through the park and down toward the gardens. Late as it was, people were still about.

Were you attacked in the park?

No, no. Nothing like that. I think. What I know is, he was happy to be out and in the brisk air. Throwing his head round to catch the most of everything. And there I was having a good time, too, talking back, pointing out the statues. We were come up on the bridge and I stopped. The moon reflected out of the water, still and smooth. I picked him out and showed it to him, the whole scene, dark banks down to flat water, pricks of light rippling.

The boy, he's quiet, blessed quiet, and we drink in the sight. I relax, and there's the end of it.

Soon as he feels me loosen my grip, he takes off flapping his arms, arching his back and crowing. Catches me off my balance and throws us against the railing.

I'll have men start dragging the river tonight. The parents are very upset.

They're quite excitable, isn't it. But here's the catch. I don't recall as we ever hit the water. And where was I for near on two weeks?

If I close my eyes and hold my breath, I hear Indian drums and smell sea salt. I can almost see this group of islands below me, like I'm a great bird, but it's all wavery and I can't get any closer. I try but it's all getting farther away. The islands are pushing me back!

Officer, please, send me back to the islands.

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Brody, I can't tell you there is much hope. The railing on the bridge was broken, so we will search the river and the park, but with the time we've lost… Don't think of him as dead, but remember him the way he was, in the flower of his youth.

She may not get the gallows, but I'll see she doesn't see the outside of Bedlam for years.