Rare Lansdale Page 16

  It is also necessary to prepare the dragon alive. Dragons, the moment they die, begin to go bad. This is true of all meat, but with the dragon it is a much faster process than with any other meat known. Within a few hours, unless cooked, the meat becomes foul.

  If the meat is cut from the dragon quickly, and deep fried, or in the case of other kinds of recipes, boiled or baked, etc., for whatever reason, the meat ceases to spoil and retains its sweetness, and will keep permanently, though other ingredients in your recipe can go bad and make the meat inedible.

  The way to prepare the meat is to, well, catch the dragon, of course. You should do this with a net. They can often be found shortly after birth when the mother dragon is away, searching out cattle or other foods it digests and then regurgitates into the baby dragons’ mouths. At this early age, if you watch and make sure the mother is away, the dragons are fairly harmless and the net is the best way to capture them. The net should be of strong wire. The dragon’s ability to breathe fire does not kick in until the creature reaches the age of a year or so, but even at an early age their tail can thrash violently and they have more than a passing semblance to adult claws. Even the beating of their little wings can cut you like a knife.

  When the dragon has been captured, it is desirable to calm it for a couple of days. After a day or two of calming the dragon down, it should be placed on a diet of fresh milk and soft vegetables for about a week. Then it can be stroked. Once its confidence is gained, it should be removed gently from the holding pen. Do not excite the dragon, as its claws and tail and wings could be dangerous. I know I have mentioned this, and I don’t mean to overemphasize it, but it is an important thing to consider.

  Keep the beast calm. This isn’t hard to do as the dragon is by nature trusting. The best way to prepare the dragon is to lay it length-wise on a sturdy board as wide and as long as the dragon. A neat trick to help with the preparation is to coat the board with vegetable oil. Dragons will be attracted to this and will begin to lick it. Very carefully place a long spike at the back of the dragon’s head, where the neck joins, and with a well timed and well placed strike with a hammer, drive the nail through the dragon’s spine and into the board.

  It is advisable to slip a rope over the tail of the dragon before this strike, and to gently pull it taut while it is preoccupied with licking the board. The strike, if properly performed, should sever the dragon’s spine, and its ability to thrash its tail. The sounds it makes will be excruciating, and it will be tempting to put the dragon out of its misery quickly, but this will ruin the meat.

  The thing to do is to whack off the tail at the base, saving that bit of meat from contamination should your nail be slightly off the spine. The head meat does not contaminate as long as the animal is alive, so it is best to use a sharp and sturdy blade and pliers to slowly strip the skin from the head before cutting into the bone with an electric bone saw, and then into the brain. I should also add that wiring the wings together carefully before binding the tail gently and striking the dragon with the nail or spike is advisable. As I said, the wings can be as dangerous as the teeth or the tail.

  But, I was saying about the stripping of the meat. Only at this point, should the animal be allowed to die. They are sturdy and can withstand having their skin removed. You can just let them bleed out, or you can finish them with a few strokes of your mallet. I find wielding a mallet a messy endeavor, and generally just let them bleed and die.

  Let us return our attentions to the recipe. We now have the tail, and the head meat. It is suggested that if dragons are not available, that the meat of small children is equally satisfying and tasty, and they are much easier to handle. With the large number of children being born, due to restrictions in the laws, and those that are being placed in orphanages, this is a perfect way to take care of them, and there are some butcher shops that specialize in children already butchered and prepared, though this is not as true of the dragon. Children are perfect substitutes for many dishes, and they can suffice to duplicate, or at least take the place of, anything from pork to chicken to beef to fish or dragon. It depends on the parts of the children you use. It all begins to taste a bit like beef or pork if the child becomes too old, so keep that in mind. And of course when they are adults they are free to make their own choices. Eating adults is definitely out, as anyone in their right minds should know.

  Children as meat have become quite popular, and frankly, it is a way the population can be lowered without it being an unnecessary death, or some form of stem cell usage which goes against the laws of God and man. Food is not a waste, and I say here, and without fear, we are all creatures of God, and God believes we are the rulers of the earth, and though all life is precious, and all babies should be preserved, it is obviously okay for them, up until that certain age, to be eaten, as this activity, nourishing one’s self, is in God’s plan.

  Abortion clinics of the past gave women a choice, but there should be no choice. All life is sacred and should be preserved until that moment that it becomes meat, or it becomes an adult. No babies of dragons or of human persuasion were killed in the womb for any dish I have ever prepared, and I am proud of that. I use only fresh out-of-the-womb meat that no one wants, or has abused, or taken a limb from.

  I stress this because there are underground recipes that make use of aborted embryos, and this is a foul blow against God, and I would not want to be thought one of their ilk.

  Forgive me my distraction, but since this cookbook is designed for the church, I suppose its dictates and concerns were on my mind. Hail to him that is love. Hail to God who knows all and loves all and wants us to protect the defenseless children.

  And remember, dragon chili, with the occasional substitute, is one of the finest and tastiest meals that one can digest, for it, like the child, comes from the egg of a female and the seed of male, and none of it has been spilled and none of it has been violated in the womb. It is all meat, fresh and clean and unwanted and unloved, except prepared in the manner that I have suggested, adding plenty of black pepper and a smidgen of salt and lots of chili pepper to taste.

  Cook on.

  Brother Canefield: Chef for the Church of ReligiousUnion and Harmony and The Home of The One True God and his Minions

  THE FULL COUNT

  The scarred face, bulky body, gnarled knuckles and go-to-hell look seemed out of place with the green-and-yellow plain sports coat, lavender slacks, white shoes and blue-and-grey striped tie the man was wearing.

  He closed the door of his shiny, black Lincoln, put a nickel in the meter, and made his way up the hot mid-day sidewalk to a little bar with a sign overhead that read The Idle Hour Lounge.

  It was cool dark inside, just right for groping couples. Not many couples were there to grope at the moment, however. Just one old man who should have been with his wife and TV set, was putting the clutch on the plump thigh of a bleached blonde working girl about twenty years past her prime. Her plastic giggles were shrill enough to shatter a beer mug.

  A couple of not-so-young, executive types with loose ties and tired eyes were sitting alone at booths looking as if they might break down and cry in their beer at any moment. A pot-bellied patron in a green leisure suit with more quarters than good sense or musical taste was keeping the jukebox in business.

  The bartender, a young blond man in a red-and-white pinstripe shirt with black elbow garters and a matching bow tie, was leaning over the bar with a rag dangling from his right hand and a look as distant as the Sahara in his eyes.

  In the rear booth, Raymond Slater, private detective, was passing an idle hour with a lukewarm beer and a cigarette. It was almost time for the evening stampede and elbow war, coupled with the seemingly endless coinage of the music lover, and Slater decided to break his routine a little early. He was finishing up his beer when the big man in the expensively mismatched outfit came in.

  Slater wasn't the only one who noticed him. The ill-clad bruiser pushed his six-three, 240 pounds up to the bar and called
for a beer. His voice sounded as if it had been fished from the bottom of a deep barrel.

  He was interesting enough for the old man and the hooker to stop their play for a look. The two lonely executive types checked him out. Even Music Lover lost a few foot-pats over it.

  The bartender brought him a beer, snapped up the change, fed the register and went back to his bar leaning. The old man and the hooker returned to the business at hand. The sad boys returned to the bottom of their glasses for comfort, and Music Lover clacked two more quarters.

  Beer in hand, the man went directly to Slater's table and sat down across from the detective.

  The neon light was dim, but not so dim for Slater to get a look at the man's features. They looked as if they had been chiseled out of a coral reef. He had a flat nose, wadded ears and dark, liquid eyes that looked eerie in the pulsating blue and white of the neon sign that blinked BEER. Later, in better light, Slater would see that the man's close-cropped black hair was peppered with grey.

  "You Raymond Slater?" he asked.

  "Uh-huh," Slater said cautiously, "You're...?"

  "Yank Callahan, Ray," the bottom of the barrel voice said. "Call me Yank." He shoved a hand the size of a catcher's mitt at Slater. They pumped. Slater thought it was like shaking hands with a mechanic's vise.

  "How do you know me?" Slater asked.

  Yank drank the beer down almost in one glug, licked his lips. "Burn down at the cop-shop told me this is where I'd most likely find you this time of day. Gave me a good description. Said you looked like a well dressed street fighter."

  "Flattering!"

  "You see, Slater, I checked with the cops in GulfCity and here in Pasadena about advising me on a private dick. When I found out that my buddy Burn worked for the Pasadena bunch, I asked his advice and quit looking. We used to be pretty tight buddies, me and Burn. He told me this was a Monday through Friday routine with you. Want a beer?"

  Slater said that he did. Yank turned and yelled over the wailing of the jukebox-no minor feat-at the bartender for two beers.

  A skinny waitress who had just come on duty brought them over with an exaggerated wiggle and a smile that would have looked more at home in a beaver's mouth. Yank gave her a bill. She set the beers down, took his empty glass and went away, the wiggle still at work.

  Slater drank some beer, got out another cigarette, offered Yank one. Yank declined.

  Slater lit up.

  "What exactly do you have in mind?" Slater asked.

  "I need you to find someone, Slater. My trainer, Jason Krim."

  "Trainer?"

  "Uh-huh. I'm a fight manager. Do a little promoting, too. Maybe you've heard of my man. Anibal Martinez."

  Indeed Slater had. Martinez had been a nothing until recently. His surprise victory over the number-two contender for the crown had jumped his ratings by more than a few notches, and since he was a Pasadena, Texas, fighter, the papers had been chock full of it.

  "I've heard of him," Slater said. "Seen him fight on TV a couple of times. He's good. Probably got a good shot at the championship."

  Yank nodded. "Real good chance. Listen, Slater, Burn told me you were the best private detective in Pasadena-Houston for that matter."

  "Burn told you that?"

  "Sure did. But I don't imagine he wants you to know. He doesn't like to let on he likes anybody."

  "Doesn't do a bad job of it, either."

  Yank laughed shortly. "That he don't." Then: "About the job, Slater?"

  "I'm listening."

  "You see, I got my own gym. It ain't much, but I'm proud of it. I used to fight some-hell, a lot. I didn't get this mug from tennis. Wasn't ever a number-one contender or nothing, but I was pretty good. I had the size and the strength, a little talent. I was good enough so that when I retired from the ring I got some training jobs. Trained some pretty good fighters. Remember Kit Miller, Miller the Killer? Ted Niven?"

  Slater nodded. "I remember. They your boys?"

  "Yep. I trained those pugs. Made some pretty good bread on account of it. Bought this gym in GulfCity. It ain't much, but it's paid for and I've lined up some pretty good local talent."

  "One of them is Anibal Martinez."

  "That's right. Anyway, I've done okay, and I got myself one fine trainer, Jason Krim."

  "And Krim's missing?"

  "Almost a week now. The police haven't found a single lead, least not anything that's helped."

  "And you saw him last, when?"

  "A week ago Tuesday."

  "Krim ever do this before?"

  "Plenty, but not for this long. That's why I waited a couple of days to report it. He's a pretty temperamental guy, very apt to do this sort of thing-and, to tell the truth, he and Anibal don't get along so good. Least not outside of the ring. That might have had something to do with it. When Jason feels pushed, he does funny stuff."

  "Like walks out?"

  "Uh-huh. Odd thing, though, is, when it comes to boxing, things are different. They respect each other there, least on how a fight is won. They've just got the kind of personalities that grate on one another.

  "I don't think there's a trainer alive that can work with and get more out of Anibal than Jason." Yank paused and drank the rest of his beer. "Yeah, he's done it before, but it's only three weeks before the fight, and there isn't any way in hell Jason would do anything to hurt the fight."

  "You said that he and Anibal didn't get along very well. Wouldn't this be a good time for him to get even? Say they had an argument, and-"

  Yank threw up a hand. "No way. Jason and Anibal can go at each other like starved rats, but there ain't no way you could get Jason to hurt a fight. He may not like Anibal in ways, but the guy's his handiwork.

  "It's like a car in a way. You may not like the paint job, but if you tuned the engine it holds something special for you." Yank gave Slater a stiff look. "Whatayasay, Slater? Burn said that you could probably find him before they did on account of how busy they are."

  Slater was still thinking, humorlessly, about Yank's car-tuning analogy. "All right, Yank," he said. "I'll find him. But I won't guarantee he'll come back. That's his decision."

  Yank nodded. "That's fair enough, Slater." With that, he groped a huge wallet from his pocket and picked three hundreds from an ample collection of same. "This do for a retainer?"

  Slater managed not to lick his lips. "Quite."

  "You can bill me for the rest," Yank held out his hand. They shook and Slater got the address of Yank's gym. After that, they went out into the glaring sunshine together.

  "Tomorrow at nine," Slater said.

  "Right. Nine."

  Yank went to his sleek, black Lincoln and drove away. Slater got into his red '65 Chevy with the stuffing leaking out of the seats and drove home.

  II

  Early the next morning Slater showered, dressed, had a grease-and-egg sandwich and drove over to the address Yank had given him. He spotted the Lincoln right off. It looked conspicuous in this dreary neighborhood. He parked, got out, took a look at the gym. It appeared overdue for the wrecking ball. He lit a cigarette and went inside.

  The interior was unexpectedly slick. All new equipment, all shiny to the eye. Never judge a gym by its cover, Slater thought.

  There were Nautilus weight machines, speed bags, heavy bags, racks of jump ropes and lots of people scuttling about making shadow moves and noises like boxers. On a raised platform, between the ropes, a stylish boxer Slater recognized as Anibal Martinez was slamming the hell, left and right, out of his puffing sparring partner.

  No doubt about it the kid had the moves. There was champ written all over him. A half dozen men were gathered about the ring, hanging on the ropes. One of them was Yank. Slater went over and stood by him.

  "Ain't he somethin'!" Yank said after shaking hands with Slater. The big detective agreed that he was in fact something all right. A real hell of a boxer.

  "That's enough," Yank yelled to Anibal, and the grateful sparring partner dropped h
is tired hands for a rest.

  Anibal spit his mouthpiece into a gloved hand. A short man wearing a grey sweatshirt and sweat pants slid through the ropes and untied his gloves, took off the head protector. That done he made his way over to the sparring partner. Anibal slid between the ropes, flopped down next to Slater and Yank.

  "You the detective Yank hired to find Krim?" The boxer asked with just the slightest trace of a Mexican accent.

  "That's me," Slater said.

  "If I was you, I'd do my looking in the bars. Under some bar stool preferably."

  "Something serious could have happened," Yank cut in. "For goodness sake..."

  Anibal tossed Yank a cold stare. "Could be the best thing that ever happened to us," he said slowly. With that he went over to the speed bag and put his taped knuckles to work.

  "Nice fellow," Slater said.

  "Foolish pride, Slater," Yank said. "He won't admit it, but without Jason he just ain't the same."