LOST
A Close Encounter with Tom Waits

“So, are you going to ask him why you can’t levitate?” Marc asked as he and Stew walked to the diner where Stew was to meet Wiz.

“Well, I think he did say that I wouldn’t be able to do anything like that right away.”

“Why the hell not?” Marc asked, perturbed.

“I don’t know. I guess it just doesn’t work like that. We’ll have to make sure we get that big round booth in the corner. There’s more privacy over there.”

The two of them rounded the corner and, as Stew opened the door and was about to go inside, a man standing beside the newspaper machine just outside the entrance stopped them. He had been reading a paper and holding it head-high and so, initially, Stew could not see his face. Even after the man let go of the paper with one hand to scratch the tuft of hair on his chin, his face was still obscured in shadow by a golf cap that he wore especially low on his brow. However, they could see enough of his face to see that he made Tom Waits, at his scruffiest, look like Tom Cruise. Sideburns that went down past his jaw line, a goatee at least three inches long and a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his lipless mouth.

“You got the time?” the man asked Stew in a gruff voice.

“Uh, sure,” Stew said, looking at his watch. “It’s just after eleven-thirty.”

“Thanks,” the strange man said, after which he went back to his newspaper.

Stew and Marc went inside and upon reaching the corner booth, Marc commented, “Did you see that guy’s hands? It looked like he had implants donated by a werewolf. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say his knees bent the wrong way.”

Stew sat down at the booth in front of a coffee cup that was turned upside-down on a saucer. “Marc, I don’t pay that much attention to people.”

“Well, considering what you’ve been through, maybe you should,” Marc said, situating himself in front of his own overturned coffee cup.

“Yeah, maybe. He was a bit weird. I’m sure there are weirder people than him. We’d probably have to go to L.A. or Las Vegas to see them, but… There’s Wiz. Wiz!” he signaled to him with a raised hand. As Wiz approached the table, he eyed Marc cautiously. “Wiz, this is my friend, Marc. Marc, Wiz.”

“Stew, are you sure…” Wiz said hesitantly.

“He’s cool. He knows. He’s skeptical, but…” Stew replied, trying to keep his voice down. There were a few people two tables over, but other than that, they had half of the diner to themselves.

“You need proof, too, then?” Wiz asked, fatigue apparent in his voice.

“It would be nice. Stew can’t seem to provide any himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“He tried to levitate last night. Didn’t work so well.”

“Well, he’s only recently embraced the notion that he’s not like everyone else. Perhaps he wasn’t listening when I told him that before.”

“I was listening, but Marc was convinced that, if I was what you claimed, that I should be able to do something. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”

“Well, I can assure you, Marc… he’s got some work to do before he can do any magic. So… what kind of proof would you like?”

“I don’t know. Surprise me.”

“Turn that coffee cup over,” Wiz ordered. “You, too, Stew.” They did as Wiz asked, smiling in anticipation. “Do you take cream and sugar?”

“Um, yeah,” Marc replied in disbelief.

“Stew?”

“Lots of each.”

“Keep in mind, this will taste slightly different than what they serve here.” Wiz pointed a finger at each cup and as he did so, they filled with a caramel colored liquid. Marc and Stew looked at their magically steaming beverages as a waitress came over to the booth.

“We’ve already been helped. Thank you, Ma’am,” Wiz said, hoping she wouldn’t think anything suspicious of them.

“So, you have. How in the world did that happen? I must have done it without thinking. Sorry, guys.”

“It’s no problem,” he said as she went back behind the counter.

“That was impressive,” Marc commented. “Now, that guy over there… with the cheap toupee. Make his rug fly off.”

“Marc…”

“What? It would be a cool trick. He’ll think there’s a draft or something.”

“I can’t,” Wiz replied.

“Aw. Why not?” Marc asked, disappointed.

“Because there are certain rules to be followed.”

“Rules? What kind of rules?” Stew asked.

“The Immortal Laws of Magic.”

“Wow. That sounds… serious,” Marc said, still with a mocking tone. “So, is there some kind of magic police, flying around on black and white broomsticks?”

“Marc, shut up,” Stew scolded.

“It was a legitimate question… almost,” Wiz defended Marc. “We’re self-governing and self-policing. Although, there is a council of elders, called the Triskaideka, that we have to answer to if we do something we shouldn’t.”

“How can you be self-governing and self-policing if you have to answer to someone?”

“They’re like a United Nations for immortals. They can’t do anything to prevent us from doing something, aside from physically standing in our way, but they can punish us, drop us a tier or two, take away powers, exile us, if they replace that we’ve misbehaved.”

“Tiers? You mean, like ranks?”

“Yes, I suppose it’s something like that.”

“You have ranks?” Marc asked, the cynicism notably missing from his voice. “Interesting. So, there’s nothing preventing you from doing magic in public?”

“To an extent. We are still subject to the laws of mortals.”

“Okay, so, is Stew immortal?”

“I’m not sure. Somehow, I think his soul intends to be, but something prevented it.” The three of them ordered their food and continued to talk while they ate.

Zachary sauntered through the front door of the diner like a mob enforcer who had just caught a rat. His hands in his pockets and a slick grin, he wore his arrogance and pride like cheap cologne. Wiz, Stew and Marc were busy trying to figure out Stew’s lack of immortal magic and didn’t see him until he was at their table.

“How’s the head? Healing okay?” Zachary asked, not actually expecting an answer. He took a French fry from Stew’s plate, put it in his mouth, and after chewing it for a moment, promptly spit it back onto Stew’s plate. “Why do you like this place so much? The food is….” He wiped his mouth, disgusted. “…manure.”

“What do you want, Zachary?” Wiz asked, annoyed.

“Some desire fame and fortune. Some… world domination. All I want is to break the Circle into a thousand light particles,” Zachary said, holding his hands up and splaying his fingers, “casting you all into darkness… forever.”

“Is that all?” Wiz asked, blinking his eyes and wearing a smirk.

“Yes. I’m fairly easy to please. I’m just biding my time, waiting for an opportunity to present itself. Your little intervention was just a minor delay of the inevitable.”

“Just leave Astrid out of it. She’s not even in the Circle.”

“Astrid?” he looked at Stew and smiled evilly. He brought his fingers to his mouth and wiped the saliva from the corners. “We’ll be seeing each other soon.”

“Wiz… who is Astrid? You promised. Who is she?”

“Someone who is now in grave danger.”

Zachary walked out of the diner, more than satisfied by Wiz’s error. As he passed Samal, he whispered an order, “Follow them. I’ll meet you back at the warehouse. Don’t harm them. Don’t let yourself be seen. I just want to know where they live.” Astrid? Could it be? Yes. Yes, I understand now. Xamn had to live so that my Astrid could be brought back to me. This certainly changes everything.

“Who was that?” Marc asked.

“If I had to guess, that was Zachary,” Stew said.

“We have to get ahold of Detective Alderman,” Wiz said, urgency in his voice. “Where’s Alex?”