Free Dancing on the Head of a Pin by Thomas E. Sniegoski Page A

“Monkey! Crazy monkey! Throw! Pull!”
    “What did I say?” Remy grabbed the monkey from the dog and tossed it over his shoulder, never taking his eyes from the two stacks. The dog took off again after the toy as Remy began to examine the piles. One contained most of the information on the weapons, but the other he had no recollection of ever seeing, never mind making a separate stack.
    He sensed that Marlowe had returned and ignored him, pulling the smaller stack that he had made over for a closer look. It contained the information on four specific weapons. He removed the photos, lining them up in front of him on the desk—Japanese katana, a medieval battle-axe, an intricately etched Colt 45, and the beautiful simplicity of twin daggers.
    What was it about these particular weapons that seemed to so interest him?
    Marlowe sighed, dropping his seventy pounds to the floor beside Remy’s chair with the stuffed monkey, depressed that he’d been rejected.
    “Sorry, buddy,” Remy apologized. “But I’ve got to figure this out.”
    He picked up the photograph of the Japanese sword, staring at it before carefully reading the notes that accompanied the fearsome blade. According to the information, the katana was created in the year 1565 by master sword maker Asamiya.
    “I know that name,” Remy muttered, leaning back in his chair. Marlowe lifted his head, thinking that maybe it was time to play again. “Where do I know that name?”
    It wasn’t long before he remembered.
    Remy wasn’t sure how many years ago it was, but he was certain that it was no more than three or four. Francis had returned from one of his out-of-state assignments with something that he couldn’t wait to show to his friend. The special something had been a Japanese sword crafted by Asamiya, supposedly the greatest Japanese sword maker who had ever lived.
    He looked at the photo of the sword a bit longer before stacking it with the other information and placing everything back inside the envelope in which it had been delivered. What he had to do, then, was obvious. If anybody could give him some insight on these weapons, it was Francis.
    He pushed his chair back and stood up, reaching over to turn off his desk lamp.
    Marlowe was already standing, limp monkey dangling from his mouth, the anticipation of more playtime twinkling in his dark brown eyes. But what Remy was about to ask the animal was even better than playtime.
    “Do you want to go for a ride?”
    The response was as he expected.
    A ride in the car trumped chasing a stuffed monkey hands down.
     
    It wasn’t common knowledge, but there was an entrance to Hell on Newbury Street.
    It had been there for nearly forever, even before there was a Newbury Street, when the Back Bay was underwater. And Remy was sure that the fissure had existed even long before that. There was no specific reason why it was there, no violent series of events so horrible that it had ripped the very fabric of reality. Nothing so dramatic. It was just that all over the planet there were places where the barriers between this world and the worlds beyond it were quite a bit thinner, and doorways between these planes of existence had been established.
    As luck would have it, Remy had found a parking space at a meter that still had close to an hour left on it. He didn’t figure he’d be that long, but he popped a few quarters into the meter anyway. One never could tell when a legion of meter maids could descend, dispensing their forty-dollar greetings. The seventy-five cents was much more palatable.
    “I’m a good dog,” Marlowe said to him as they stood beside the car, Remy sliding the chain collar attached to the leash around the animal’s neck.
    “I know you are, but you still have to wear the leash when you’re in the city,” Remy explained.
    “Good dog, won’t run away.”
    “I know you won’t run away, but some people are afraid of good dogs and don’t appreciate you trying to say hello.” Remy placed