Chapter 1

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​Over the years I’ve been on the receiving end of a variety of unique beat-downs. I have been hammered at by trolls, ghouls, bad cops, even worse thugs, dwarves, assorted things not remotely human, and in one memorable instance, the elves who worked for Krampus, Santa’s less congenial twin brother. Not once, in all those times had I ever thought I’d be the punching bag for an animated giant plush toy with a punch that made the best the MMA could do look like yesterday’s lo mein. I’m talking serious non-noodle here.

​I had been taking an alley, useful as a shortcut from a small shop where I’d been collecting another puzzle piece in the latest case to the closest bus stop on the way home when this… paw dragged me into one of the narrow alcoves a lot of San Francisco’s alleyways have hidden away.

I bounced off one wall, was picked up, and then bounced off another. I was pretty sure if I hadn’t been wearing my coat, the one with the Kevlar lining, I’d have been a collection of broken bones by now.

The teddy bear reached down and grabbed me by the collar and picked me up in one paw. Its toy eyes narrowed and it growled, “You done pissed off da wrong folk, Mandolin.”

What? I dated the toymaker’s daughter or something? Insulted Ken?

As I was trying to get a reply pieced together in my fumbling brain, the other paw connected with my jaw. Stars exploded all around me. This bear should have been in the ring as a heavyweight. He’d have made champ easy.

I fumbled onto the pocket where I kept my nasty surprises. I held one up as the bear reached again. It stopped, the eyes crossing.

“Dat’s magic,” It muttered. “Dey never said nothing about you havin’ magic.”

I snarled, pulling out what I had in my other hand, “Did they say anything about this?” I pulled the trigger.

Pop-pop-pop! The three tap of my Wizard-enhanced ammunition took the teddy bear right in the middle of its round belly and threw it back a couple of yards.

It landed and then skidded back a few more feet, and then looked down. The late afternoon fog-filtered light showed through the hole in its middle

“Now why’d you go an’ do that?” It moaned, “You know how much good repairs cost these days?”

I grated, “Deal with it. Now, you either tell me what this is all about, or I ruin the rest of your day… permanently.” I leveled the gun, a highly-illegal modified FN five-seven with ammo spelled by Landau Bain, the city’s own part-time alcoholic Wizard, and by the big guy. No, I mean the really big guy upstairs. By themselves, the Teflon-coated tactical rounds were bad news for anyone wearing a so-called bullet-proof vest, but after Bain and God got done with them, I’d stack the thing against an Abrams tank any day.

“You is a real hard-ass, you know dat?” The teddy bear complained.

“Yeah,” I muttered, “I make my momma proud. Now, talk, or I remove your head and all its stuffing.”

The bear muttered, mostly to itself, “Real hard-ass. Dey shoulda warned me.”

Then it got up and took off, running out of the alcove and into the alley.

I think what I said afterward would not have made my mom proud, but I meant every single four-letter word.

You’d think an eight-foot-tall teddy bear running down the sidewalk would cause a stir. Yeah, well, in New York or London it might, but this is San Francisco. Considering what the average city dweller has seen before their thirtieth birthday, a walking giant teddy bear might get a look, but not a second one.

It hurt, having to stand, but somehow I managed it. For obvious reasons, my gun being one of many, I couldn’t stumble into the closest ER, which was a shame, it was literally a block away. I also couldn’t go see the only friend I had on the SFPD for much the same assorted reasons. Pat Monahan was an old friend, but he was also a Police Captain, which meant he’d have to arrest me. And, that meant I had to find a certain bar and grill.

No, I’m not kidding. In San Francisco, there is an incredibly eclectic assortment of boozers. Anything from the ultra-fancy where they charge you a thousand bucks for overpriced snooty hooch, to dives so rough even the gangsters are afraid to belly up. However, I’m talking about a place where the owner is not only the bartender and head cook, but he also has a punch that can deck a troll. I know, I saw it happen. His name is Tiny, he’s also the king of the Norse Gods, Odin, and his place is called The Snug.

It took two bus transfers to get from where I was, Valencia in the Mission District, up to my neighborhood, a quiet spot off the southeast corner of the park and in the shadow of Mount Sutro.

Yeah, I said bus transfer. I don’t drive, and the only license I have is my Private Investigator’s license. I could drive… if I wanted to go through the hassle of buying a car in California and dealing with every state, county, and municipal agency dedicated to the hassling of those who do drive. No thanks. I’d rather put up with the irritation of those who have to deal with me and the fact that I will get there when I can, and not when they want me.

For that matter, I have two offices, both basically enlarged closets. One in the older downtown section of town and the other in my home, where the parking is hell of a lot safer. I’m just a phone call away… if I’m not on a case, which means you couldn’t reach me regardless, you see I also don’t own a leash, what most people call cell phones.

My partner in my agency, Frankie, says I’m an unrepentant Luddite. I disagree, I’m unrepentantly independent. I don’t see why I should hand over the management of any aspect of my life to a faceless bureaucracy or corporation. Frankly, I have a hard time understanding why so many do, as the conclusion by any intelligent observer would be that those folks who are handed the responsibility have no idea at all how to run things.

Regarding Frankie, Franklin Amadeus Jackson to the folks at the license bureau, he is not your typical PI. Hell, he isn’t even your typical homo sapiens. The big guy, an apt nickname, stands close enough to seven-foot as to make no difference. He’s large, but what hides under his flannel PJ’s isn’t fat, and he’s about as strong as the entire defensive line of the Niners. He’s also a gourmet cook, an extreme pop culture fanboy geek sponge, and when the mood hits him, a raging cross-dressing diva who could give Cher lessons in attitude. But, even with the attitude, the big guy has saved my hide too many times for me to ignore it. As Pat Monahan puts it, “Jackson’s a pain in the ass, Mandolin, but thank God he’s our pain in the ass.”

Yeah, Mandolin is my name, like the bear said. Tony Mandolin, Private Investigator at your service. I find things, all sorts of things. I don’t do cheating spouse spying and I don’t handle gay or lesbian domestic spats. I do however succeed where nearly everyone else fails. So far, my record stands at zero strikeouts. Don’t believe me? Look it up. Even Antonio Luccesi, chief crime lord of the Western U.S. said so. And if you can’t believe organized crime, who can you believe?

About ten years ago, I got involved in a case where a serial killer was taking out redheads. I didn’t know it at the time, but the killer was a vampire named Simon, and I also didn’t know that my involvement in that case would kick me across the veil between the world of human reality and the world of the weird. As a certain booze-loving pixie put it, my eyes were opened. In some ways that isn’t a problem, but it also got me noticed by that side of the tracks and that, folks is a real problem.

Before the case was over, I was on the serious boom-boom list of the police administration and had nearly every crime lord in the city throwing money my way, not to mention a six-figure pittance from one Randall Driver, a man who commanded a fortune the UN would love to have.

That enabled me to leave my sagging upper floor walkup apartment in the section of town where I still keep my office and buy a nice little Victorian with a tiny park right across the street. It also threw me into another case I’ve never talked about, one dealing with what the Wiccans claim isn’t there, their evil cousins, or as Frankie put it, the dark side of witchcraft. That case also got me a sack full of potions in vials. It was one of those I was holding that distracted the bear from his Mandolin beat-down.

Somehow, I managed to make it to the bus stop without looking too much like the invalid I was. In that part of town, you do not want to appear to be an easy victim.

As I sat on the bench, keeping a wary eye out, and one hand on my gun, I thought about the case I was working. On the surface it was just a simple disappearance, possibly involving a runaway. But, runaway just didn’t fit the notes. The kid, just about to graduate, was a four-sport star and had an entire string of colleges bidding for his signature. Identification was a no-brainer, I had a notebook full of photos, including newspaper clippings. What I didn’t have was a corner piece for the puzzle.

So far the trail had led me from the school to the gym, to about four, so far, sports agents with dreams of landing the next superstar for their bank accounts, to a bookie. That last bit was what took me down into the outskirts of the Tenderloin, and a couple of dive bars where a decent amount of action, not approved by the authorities, could be had. It seemed the kid was hot property even before he was signed. From there I got whacked by a giant stuffed toy.

After getting onto the bus, I made my painful way to the bench seat at the very back. I wanted to be able to see if any unfriendlies stuck their heads in. I got lucky and made it to the first transfer unmolested. It was the same with the second transfer. For that, I was extremely thankful, as I was thinking I just might make it to the door of the Snug before planting a new facial impression into the sidewalk.

I managed to remain upright all the way through the door. I woke up with a view of the ceiling along with Tiny’s broad, whiskered face.

He said, “Tony, you okay? What happened? You look like yesterday’s crap.”

I groaned, “I feel like last week’s.”

Tiny’s eyes narrowed and he reached down, moving his hand past my field of vision. “What’s this?” He murmured, pulling the hand back and sniffing what looked like a bit of bear stuffing.

Then he reached down with the other hand and picked me up by the armpit, saying, “Tony, you and me, we need to talk.”

It was a tribute to Tiny that the patrons in the bar made way without being asked as he mostly carried me over to a chair at a back corner table.

After plopping my behind onto the chair he looked at me again, grunted and then placed a hand, roughly the size of my chest, onto my right shoulder. Cold, icy, numbing cold washed through me, followed by a delicious muscle-soothing warmth. Then he grunted again, as if satisfied and turned to walk away, saying, “You stay right there. I’ll be back shortly.”

I could feel every eye on the bar burning holes in me. I knew most of those eyes, this was my local after all. I shrugged, and said to the room, “Rough day.”

They all nodded, and then went back to their drinks and conversation. Like I said, this is the city. Where street theater is concerned here, it has a tough audience.

Heavenly smells came wafting my way, and then Tiny pushed through the door flaps leading to the kitchen, carrying a platter in one hand and a pitcher of beer in the other.

He said as he put the platter down before me, “You know what to do when you’ve been healed, so do it.”

The steak was really more of a family feast. It had to be about four pounds of prime beef surrounded by roasted baby potatoes with a generous helping of asparagus drizzled in what smelled like garlic butter on the side.

Setting the platter and the beer down, he rumbled, “Get through this and then we’ll talk.”

My stomach had begun demanding attention as he talked and so I dove in.

I came up for air three times, once, to wash down the previous bites with beer, and twice to burp. Before I realized it, I was looking at an empty platter and a nearly empty pitcher of beer.

A few of the patrons were staring at me, gaping. A couple two tables over politely applauded.

Tiny came back to the table and, chuckling, pulled out a chair. “That’s what I like to see,” He said, “A nice healthy appetite.”

I asked, “Am I going to have to eat like this for the next week like I did last time?”

On one of my earlier, and deadlier cases. I’d been burned to nearly a literal crisp by a fire elemental. Tiny visited me in the hospital and he’d done his healing bit right there in the room. I think I just about emptied the city of steak during that week. Because that sort of healing forces the body to use its reserves to rebuild tissue at speeds it was never designed to do, if you don’t eat like an entire sports team, you die from lack of fuel. And most of that fuel has to be red meat.

I'd always wondered what would be the result of Tiny healing a vegan.

Tiny waved the question away, grunting, “Naw. Just for a couple of days. You were injured, Tony, not dying. But I sure would like to know how come you were messing with a Tsukumogami.”

It was my turn to gape, “A… su-ku… a what?”

Tiny pronounced the name again. I still didn’t catch it. It sounded like Japanese, but just because I’m native-born Friscan, doesn’t mean I’m fluent in all of the thirty-odd languages used here. Yeah, I know several very insulting terms and phrases in Japanese as well as Cantonese and Mandarin, but so do most school kids these days. I had no idea what this Su-Ku thingie was.

Sighing, Tiny leaned back in his chair. It creaked in vain protest. “What attacked you, Tony, was a Japanese spirit, the kind that inhabits household things such as tools, clothing and other stuff commonly used around the home. There was some of its essence on that fluff I picked off your coat.”

“Japanese?” I blurted, “But the thing sounded like it came off of the New Jersey docks!”

Tiny shrugged, “Probably owned at one time by a sailor then. These things are flexible that way.” His eyes narrowed, “So why was it going after you?”

“Hell if I know,” I muttered, pouring off the last of the beer.

Tiny got up, “I’ll get you a refill. Have an answer for me when I get back.”

When he got back, I’d managed to pull something out of my racked brain. I said, “I remember it said I’d pissed off the wrong people.”

Tiny scowled, “That don’t narrow it down much Tony. You do that pretty regular. Maybe we best bring the Wizard in on this.”

As I drank the beer, I thought, “Oh… goodie.”

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