The neighborhood near the docks was an old memory of prosperity. There were too many businesses and very few homes. It’d once survived on an itinerant population of hungry sailors, starving for food, booze, and sex with young women. They’d puked money on command if it opened a bottle or a pair of legs. Now they’d moved on, and their desperate, foolish paychecks had gone with them.
Even in a city as densely populated as New York—even though property was in demand only a few blocks away—there were empty places with windows and doors boarded shut. Decades might pass before there were enough people to muster a recovery, and it’d be some time yet before immigrants were drawn there by the promise of cheap housing.
So the cavities of empty structures remained, standing out like missing teeth in a smile. People naturally avoided the area, fearful that someone might demand their wallets if they didn’t want their jaws to meet the same gap-toothed fate. Their concerns weren’t entirely misplaced. This was the urban hinterland, and barbarians camped there, well-organized and entrenched, the Cosa Nostra.
Governments called them the Sicilian and American Mafia, terms twisted out of the word mafioso in the 1860s. It meant “swagger” and outlined the roughest boundaries of their ideals. Members were aggressive, fearless, even bullying, but mafioso wasn’t what they called themselves. They didn’t have a real name. In the presence of fellow members, they said they were part of the “cosa nostra,” Italian for “our thing,” the only name the organization needed—the only one they effectively used. To them, every other name was an outsider’s fiction.
About ten minutes into their search, the Baron spotted the Mercury Eight exactly two blocks from the intersection. It was parked in a narrow alley beside a clam bar. The front window hosted a sign scribbled on butcher paper—Closed for Emergency.
“During lunch hours, no less. This is definitely the place,” the Baron said. “Hit the back entrance. You can talk us in through the door.”
They went around through the narrow, grease-lined alley until they found a heavy wooden door with a classic speakeasy slot. The area smelled like rancid fries; someone had tossed out a canful of melted animal fat against the opposite building, and it was congealed in yellow blobby streaks. It was doubtful that anyone had ever used this entrance during prohibition, but the sliding steel panel didn’t look that old either. It was probably used to safely deliver small packages without unlocking the door.
After a couple of deep, relaxing breaths, the Baron knocked for the Zombie.
A heartbeat later, the panel snapped open and remained empty. Nobody could be heard moving inside, nor could anyone be seen through the dark gap. There was a blank plaster wall just across from the door. The Zombie leaned forward and whispered, “We need inside.”
One eye swept in to peer from the gap, small and piggish under a meaty brow. The Zombie punched the door over the slot—a tremendous wooden thud—and the eye jerked back like he’d been socked in the face.
“Beat it!” the man inside shouted.
“I’m the Zombie. You can’t keep me out.”
The panel snapped shut. They could hear the jingle of a door chain being set.
“I’ll pull out the steel with my bare fingers!” the Zombie shouted through the door.
No response.
The Zombie mouthed to d’Holbach: Now?
The Baron nodded, grimacing with anticipation.
The Zombie straightened his fingers, pulled back his arm to strike, and then slung his whole body forward. His weight was behind the finger jab. He was striking with enough force to crush digits, shatter bones, hemorrhage and traumatize against the strength of steel.
He hit the slide panel with a slight ding and stopped motionless.
The Baron burst into raucous laughter.
“Oh come on.” The Zombie pulled back and looked up at the sky. “Come on!”
“That one is going in the notebook!”
“Zero momentum. Zero!”
“That’s the best outcome this month. Total anticlimax!”
The Zombie readied himself again. “The second time is the charm.”
“Watch out behind the door!” the Baron shouted joyously.
The Zombie slung himself forward again, this time with less skill or coherency. Chaos and sabotaged coordination were all that he embodied, limbs flying forward at bad angles, a man throwing himself to perish against the door. Physics demanded a catastrophe of ruined joints, torn tissues, fragmented bones, and black contusions of pooling blood.
Instead, the door exploded inward like someone had shot it with a Civil War cannon, and big slabs of its fragmented mass slammed into a large man in a leather jacket. The Zombie tumbled in without stopping, head going down and heels up, moving as if the wood were no more substantial than air. His victim slapped like a side of beef against the wall behind the door, head literally cracking the plaster and instantly blacking out, while the Zombie landed like an asteroid on a tiled kitchen floor, bouncing and smashing like he was made inconsistently of rubber and lead, throwing up splashes of ceramic chips and powdered grout.
For an instant, the mess rained down around him like someone dropping-kicking a dozen plates of fine china. Everyone in a block radius would’ve heard his entrance.
“I’m home!” the Zombie shouted at the top of his lungs, before the unconscious man tumbled onto him like a two hundred pound sack of flour and smashed him again chin first into the tiles. There was a nasty crack of damaged flooring, and the Zombie rolled the man off his shoulders while laughing wildly. “Where’s my fucking bowler?” he yelled. “Ah, fuck it!”
“Still alive?” the Baron shouted, asking about the man behind the door.
“Breathing!” the Zombie yelled. He scrambled to his feet, finding himself in a short hall adjoining a kitchen on his left and a meeting hall on his right.
Someone came from the right side holding an old Beretta like a goddamn Italian stereotype. The Baron hunkered down, moving fast enough to thump the outside wall. The armed man was tall, lanky, frightened—when he saw the debris, he shouted something incoherent and fired twice. The first bullet struck the Zombie in the shoulder in a burst of frayed nylon. The second one hit him just below the eye. He blinked and jerked back.
The half-smashed bullet just rolled off his cheek and fell to the floor.
“Bare hands!” the Zombie yelled. He charged the armed thug.
“He’s the Zombie!” the Baron roared from behind cover.
The tall man started emptying his shots at the Zombie. Some of the bullets missed, one of them smashed into dust, and one must’ve disappeared on one side and reappeared on the other before popping a stock pot in the kitchen. Then the fifth and last round deflected at an impossible angle, flying out the door and shooting the brick wall across the alley.
“Fuck!” the tall man shouted.
The Zombie headbutt him in the chest, knocking him cleanly off his feet and flat onto his back with a meaty slap. He emitted a miserable noise halfway between a groan and the hiss of steam escaping. He rolled over and started curling up.
“Be careful damnit!” the Baron shouted. “If you hurt me, he’ll kill you!”
At this point, the Baron couldn’t follow, but the Zombie knew what to do. He skipped over the prostrate man and into the backroom, where the rest of the Cosa Nostra would be hiding. A table spread low between a hanging lamp, and six men were seated around it, all facing towards the back door. Three were already armed.
“Hi—” the Zombie began.
Their guns spoke for them, barking out a cavalcade of fear and hate.
“Morons!” the Zombie yelled, even as they blasted him and the faux wood paneling behind him. They weren’t listening, not to him at least. Only to their own gunshots and adrenaline.
The Zombie rushed the nearest armed man on the left. He was packing a revolver, down on one knee and aiming; he must’ve practiced at the range. One, two, three bullets in the center of mass. The Zombie felt one round rolling down the inside of his shirt. He seized the revolver and the next shot went off in his hands, fragmenting, reflecting and peppering the shooter’s legs. Then the Zombie had the gun; he ripped it out of the man’s hands, and he threw it in his face. The shooter yelped, then dropped down off his chair, grabbing at the minor flesh wounds on his calves. From this moment forward, it’d be a rout.
Anyone who wasn’t armed was hitting the tile floor or going under the table. Two others were still shooting. The Zombie looked for the nearest object at hand; there was a glass ashtray. He picked up and pitched it overhand towards the head of the table.
The target tried to flinch away but got thumped in the side of the neck for his trouble and went down yowling.
The one last armed man threw down his empty Beretta and went for a shoulder holster with a snubby magnum.
“Two guns?” the Zombie asked.
The answer was a cocked hammer and a deafening boom. The Zombie grabbed the edge of the table; it was oak, far too heavy to lift, but he arched over in a way that should’ve pulled his back if the table didn’t flip. It whipped edge up and over towards the shooter; two more rounds punched holes through the rising surface in gouts of pale splinters. Then the table hit the man like he was swatted with a paddle, and he flipped back over the chair behind him and landed in a heap, screaming bloody murder the whole way.
“Anyone else?” the Zombie yelled.
One of the men rose up behind him and tried stabbing him in the kidney. Once, twice, the blade stopped dead. Then Zombie turned and decked the man in the ribs hard enough to play his lungs like the drums. Whump—the assailant went down gasping and clutching his side.
“Fuck,” the Zombie said, feeling the loose flaps of wool across his back. “You lacerated a perfectly salvageable jacket.”
No answer to that except for coughing, wheezing, and wordless pained whining. The fight was over, and the casualty count was in. One brained behind the door, one curled up on the floor, one with minor wounds on his leg, one looking pissed with a hand on his neck, one collapsed beside the toppled table, and one sinking to his knees and gasping for breath.
Only two people hadn’t fought; one was very old, with loose skin collecting on his collar like a rooster’s wattle. The other was skinny and mouse-like, with a tiny mouth and broad Mickey ears.
“Are they done?” the Baron shouted through the door.
“Out of ammo,” the Zombie called back. “Or down.”
“Don’t reload!” the Baron yelled. “Hold your fire! I’m not invincible!”
The Zombie smiled congenially. “If anyone hurts him, I will kill you.”
His opponents were sitting around in silent, wide-eyed shock, panting with discharged firearms in their hands, uncocked and impotent. They would follow the rules.
The Baron walked through the ruined doorway into the back hall, holding his hands over his head. “I’m not armed!” he called out, looking down at their first victim. The door guard was groaning, regaining consciousness quickly. He ought to survive.
“Nobody is moving!” the Zombie shouted from deeper in the building. “You can come in!”
The Baron lowered his hands and stepped daintily past the fallen man. “Please, don’t do anything stupid,” he called ahead. “Don’t aim a gun at me. Don’t shoot.” He came out of the little hall into the meeting room. It was a broad, deep area with old shelves for storing kitchen equipment. It’d long ago been converted to a safe haven for local criminal activity.
The Zombie was staring down a bundle of injured men. At a single glance, nobody had clearly died, which was encouraging. If they were lucky, this incident would bolster their reputation for the rest of this investigation—if not for several years to come.
“If anyone hurts him,” the Zombie said, running his hand through his hair to make sure it was smoothed, “then I’ll kill everyone here. If he dies? Then that’ll just be the start.”
The Baron stopped beside his friend, meeting the eyes of the oldest mobster in the room. “Hello,” he said kindly. “Are we all calm now? Have we gotten it out of our system?”
The Zombie laughed, answering for the gangsters. “Sure,” he said. “We’re calm, aren’t we boys?”
Including the man who’d blacked out in the hall, there were eight New York cultists in the building. The Baron glanced back at the door guard, who was crawling out of the hall and into the meeting space. “Is he armed?” he asked the crew in the room.
“Yes,” said the old man, scratching his rooster-wattle throat.
“Someone make sure he doesn’t try pulling his gun.”
The tall, lanky man—the first one to shoot at the Zombie—uncurled dutifully, got up, and sidled past the Baron to help the injured door guard get to his feet. After a moment, they walked together, arms over shoulders, back into the room to stand with the rest of their crew.
“Who the fuck are you?” asked the old man.
The Baron nodded. This man acted like the local boss, which meant he almost certainly was. “I’m Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach. Some of you might know me by other names. The Philosopher. The Atheist. Doubting Henry. You can call me the Baron. The man who walked me in is my associate, the Zombie. Next time, do yourselves the courtesy of opening the door.”
The Zombie pulled out his penny knife and whipped it open with a single flick of the wrist. “Want to see a trick?” He grinned manically. Nobody answered.
“I think they do,” the Baron said sternly. This really was a good place to sow the seeds of fear, churned up and soft-minded as the Cosa Nostra were after their beating.
“It’s sharp.” The Zombie proffered his left wrist to the crowd, then jammed down with the knife and started working at the sleeve of the jacket. Several people, including the Baron, flinched at the stab. He got the tip through the sleeve and yanked it outwards from his body twice, slicing the cloth open with a light ripping sound. “Cuts through nylon like nothing. But now…”
The Baron wanted to close his eyes. He couldn’t stand to watch, but he had to. His fearlessness was part of the propaganda. He steeled himself for the next step.
“Keep your eyes peeled folks.” The Zombie pulled up his left eyelid with a finger. Pale, almost white flesh peered out from above the shining orb of his eye. Tiny red vessels forked like blood lightning near the edges. He took the tip of the blade and set it in the corner of the socket, right in the tear duct. Then slowly, he slipped the point of the blade under his eyelid and pushed it up over the ball. The blade’s shape pressed on his skin from the inside, tight against the thin, fragile membrane. The edge cut along his cornea, scraping away tears. He tilted the handle out from his face and slid it in deeper, until the blade had vanished a centimeter beneath his eyelid.
The audience was mortified. Some of them closed their eyes or looked away.
The Zombie gripped the blade tight and twisted hard. There was a loud snap.
“Jesus Christ!” yelled one of the cultists.
The Zombie pulled the remainder of the blade away; its tip was now broken and pinned beneath his left eyelid. He began to laugh.
“Jesus, what the hell?” asked the old man.
Continuing to laugh, the Zombie jammed the broken blade under his right eyelid and twisted violently. There was a click of snapping steel, and another chunk of knife was pinned under his other eyelid like a bad contact. “And for the last act!” he shouted, still blinded by his own blade.
He jammed the stump of the knife into his right ear. “Invincible!” he shouted. The blade stopped dead. “Invincible, invincible!” He stabbed again and again, until it finally and suddenly sank in with a metallic squeal. “Haha, there we go.” He released the handle of the blade and it stuck. “I present to you, perfect invincibility!” He bowed.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” the old man muttered.
“You!” The Zombie pulled out the knife from his ear. The blade was curled over, stamped under pressure into the shape of an ear canal. He threw it at the audience, who scattered back to get out of its way. “Can’t!” He yanked out the bit of blade from under his left eye and flicked it away like a coin. “Win!” So went the other piece, evidence of man’s futility against him. The Zombie bowed again, relishing the show of power.
“Does everyone understand who he is now?” the Baron asked.
There were a few slow nods. A grunted aye. Nobody else spoke for fear of being singled out.
For those who were simply too afraid to ask, the Baron answered the question: “He is the invincible man. The Golem, the Soulless, the Sinner. In this era, he’s the Zombie. Whatever the name, he’s real, and you cannot stop him. By pact, he protects me, for all of my days.”
The crew grew strangely relaxed, going beyond fear into a place of grim acceptance. They waited placidly for instructions or action, maybe even to die.
“Will the cops be coming after the ruckus?” the Baron asked.
“Yeah,” the boss said quietly, “they will.”
“Can you call Tammany to scratch the visit?”
“Yeah,” the boss said, “I can.” He pointed to the thug with the shrapnel-peppered leg. “Bill, go to the front and call the Hall. Tell them to speak with Chief Guccetti. We had an accident, but nobody’s hurt and there’s no damage to anyone’s property. That’s what happened.”
The man rose to his feet slowly, then limped through the kitchen and into the bar beyond.
“What’s your name?” the Baron asked the mob boss.
“Tommaso.”
“Not Anglicized. I respect that.”
“I hear you’re a virtuous man,” Tommaso declared, “and yet you come here and break my things. You wanna tell me why you’re siccing this monster at my door?”
“Do you know the details of the Pact?” the Baron asked.
Tomasso narrowed his eyes. “You have the stage as long as that thing is here, so feel free to enlighten me.”
The Baron saw steel in Tomasso’s answer. He replied plainly: “If I die, the Zombie kills everyone involved and everyone related to them. Your guard didn’t take him seriously.”
“That justified breaking a door?”
The Baron looked genuinely frustrated. “Despite what people think, I’m not the Zombie’s keeper. He keeps me, and the best I can do for the world is be his conscience. I’ll admit, this was more violence than I expected, but I thought it would stop at the door.”
“Good intentions,” Tomasso muttered.
“I’m aware,” the Baron said, “but trust me—you’ve never met a man who values true virtue as much as me, and if you’re a good man too, you’ll do what’s right. In our lives, we all face certain limits and expectations, but the Zombie is different. There’s no force that can stop him, and you’ll never be rid of him. When people don’t believe in him—or think they’re exempt somehow? They risk more than my life or their own. They play with the lives of everyone they’ve ever known and loved. I’m sure you understand.”
“I understand,” Tommaso replied gruffly.
“Good. See that this story spreads beyond this room. Tell everyone what happened when your boys fought the Zombie. The people need to know.”
The Zombie was walking up to each man and staring at them closely, like a man inspecting fine pieces of art with an experienced, almost bored detachment.
“Let’s just be thankful it’s only a door,” the Baron continued, “I can pay to replace that—”
There was a crunch. Fragments of tile broke under a shoe.
The Baron reacted, turning, throwing his arms over his head. He was already on edge and the reaction was well-trained, practiced for one bloody decade in the 19th century. He recognized the new assailant before a sap smashed onto his forearm. His left hand went numb instantly; it was like bumping his funny bone with a tire iron and dipping his hand in bubbling wax, heat and pain and shock.
“Enzu!” the Baron shouted, grabbing at the sap arm with his other hand.
They’d missed Enzu—the cultist who’d come from Tammany Hall. Eight people in the building? No, there were nine, including the one they’d followed here. The Mercury Eight was outside. Enzu must’ve been in the bar making a phone call.
But why attack? He knew better. He knew the Zombie.
The Baron held on for a few bloody seconds before Enzu gave up and kicked out, hitting the Baron in the stomach. It was well-placed—the Baron could feel his intestines jamming up into his diaphragm in a blast of pain and instant nausea. He folded over Enzu’s shoe, tried to grab the ankle instead, but was shoved away, falling ass-first onto the floor.
The Baron gasped for air. Enzu was a dead man—should’ve known better. The Baron had to say something. He squeaked and tried to draw in a breath through icicles in his gut.
The Zombie was charging at an unburdened sprint. There wasn’t any fear of self-harm, falling, or collision. Any of these things would merely make the Zombie more dangerous. The Baron was already out of the way. Enzu had done the Zombie a foolish favor. Enzu, who shouldn’t have to die, was vulnerable. He saw the Zombie coming, and it hardly mattered.
He dropped the sap and reached into his trench coat, revealing a holstered M1911. The quick release was closed. He hadn’t expected to need this. He was slow to pull.
The Zombie slammed into him like a runaway train. They crashed into the wall, and Enzu whoofed as the air exploded out of his broad chest. The first hit had come up safe.
The Zombie backhanded the bearded man once. Enzu was dazed but still aware. The second hit had come up harmful, but not fatal.
Sooner or later, fickle fate would roll against Enzu’s life. The Baron sucked in the scorching air of hell into cramped lungs and coughed, “Don’t!”
With the man pinned to the wall, the Zombie leaned his elbow against Enzu’s throat, grabbed the man’s gun hand, and squeezed with manic, self-harming strength.
Enzu began to scream half-choked, low and gurgling, because his fingers cracked as easily as a steel cigar case. The Zombie leaned in harder.
“Don’t kill him!” the Baron half-shouted, his voice descending into a groan.
The Zombie’s teeth were bared in a fanatic snarl. He threw his weight behind the press against Enzu’s airway. He twisted the man’s broken hand, letting pain push out the old air but stopping him from drawing in the new.
“Zombie!” the Baron yelled, pushing up. “Don’t fucking kill him!”
The Zombie was huffing, shuddering.
Enzu’s eyes were closed. Snot was running from his nose freely and collecting in his mustache. His tongue was visible between his lips, emerging with unswallowed spit dribbling and drooling through his beard and onto the lapels of his trenchcoat.
The Baron got to his knees and grabbed the Zombie’s belt. “Don’t fucking do it.” He tugged. “Don’t fucking kill him.”
The Zombie gave the Baron a tiger’s glance. “He tried…”
He gently shook the Zombie’s waist. “Let him live, god damnit. Don’t fucking kill.”
The Zombie stared Enzu down. He must’ve laid down enough pressure to start a blood choke. Enzu was turning pale and going out, sagging.
“Friend,” the Baron pleaded.
The Zombie scoffed and pulled back his arm, but he didn’t let go of the broken hand, and he kept the weight of his lower body against Enzu, pinning the New York enforcer to the wall. Enzu spent a couple seconds twitching before the blood rushing back into his head was enough to revive him. Then he started coughing horribly, gagging and heaving but not actually vomiting.
The Baron let go of the Zombie’s belt and looked at the others. They were all staring. He raised a palm at them. “Stay there,” he said. “Stay.” He slowly rose to his feet. “Enzu.”
The Zombie spoke first. “Tell me why you struck the Baron.”
“Enzu,” the Baron begged. “Tell him why?”
Enzu recovered slowly, but once he’d had a couple of breaths, he could speak. “I thought you would kill them.” His voice quavered. “I wanted you for a hostage. To save them.” He coughed, grimaced, and closed his eyes. “My hand,” he whispered.
The Baron took a deep breath, trying to clear away any chest pains by letting the air push everything back into place. Nothing was cramping. Nothing was terribly injured. Feeling was seeping back into his left hand, and he could make a fist easily.
“That’s reason enough to kill you,” the Zombie said.
“He’s a good man,” the Baron said. “Zombie, he tried to save vassal cultists. These aren’t his people. They’re disposable to Tammany, but he tried. Forgive him.”
Enzu twitched miserably in the Zombie’s grasp.
The Zombie stepped back and released the man’s hand. Enzu squealed and grabbed his wrist below the broken bones. He stared with dread at the swollen digits.
The Baron very carefully patted the Zombie’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
The Zombie lightly touched the Baron’s fingers with his own hand, but he didn’t turn to look the Baron in the eye. This was not acceptable to him. Mercy was not in his nature. He was an unbreakable man in a soft world, and no two interactions were ever alike. All human contact was like this, tentative and slow, or it wasn’t safe. The Baron let go, and the Zombie went to stand by the wall, staring down the silent crowd with a glare that could wither plants.
“Enzu,” the Baron said, “forgive the Zombie.”
Enzu cast the Baron an intense stare. It was impossible to tell if it was fear or anger that opened his pupils wide. “Okay,” he finally said. “I forgive him.”
“Good. Someone drive him to the hospital. Anyone but the man who witnessed the killing.” To Enzu he said, “You’re going to need surgery. I’ll pay the bill.”
Enzu shut his eyes and concentrated on ignoring the pain in his broken hand.
Tommasso picked the tall, lanky man who’d shot the Zombie first. “Take him,” he ordered.
“You did the right thing,” the Baron told Enzu, “even if it was a bad idea.”
“It was the worst idea,” the Zombie muttered.
The lanky man led Enzu out the shattered door, and the Baron rubbed the spot across his arm where the sap had struck him.
The ache felt cold, deep, and chilly. Enzu had literally smacked a nerve, but with every motion, sharp twinges of pain brought some welcome relief. The ache briefly disappeared, and warmth returned to the bruised muscle.
Now was the time to make amends. The Baron faced the boss, straightening his back. “Tommaso, I owe you a personal apology. This is beyond anything I expected, and what I’ve done to you is wrong, even if it wasn’t intended. Will you accept restitution for the door and any medical bills for your men?”
Tommaso glared indignantly at the Baron. “I don’t want your charity, I want you gone. But I will take money for the door.”
“Deliver the bill to the Biltmore, under Ray Dufraine. They’ll send it up with my messages.”
“Fine. Now why are you here?”
The Baron felt guilty, but what could he do? Finishing his business was the best way to mollify the local boss. “Are you the Cosa Nostra running rackets along the East River docks?”
“Three of my boys shot at your freak. What do you think?”
“We need to speak with the witness who called in the death of one of your workers. We saw his body at the Greenwich Temple after he dodged, and we need the details.”
“Why do you need any of that?” Tomasso asked flatly.
Somewhere outside, the Mercury Eight could be heard roaring into life. Enzu was on his way to receive a little medical care. If he was as important as the Baron suspected, it was likely that Tammany would use an expensive wish to speed the healing process. “We’re investigating the deaths of dock workers,” the Baron answered. “You heard about the four lost in the ship scuttle?”
Tomasso squinted. “I have.”
“We’re looking for connections between the dead man and that task.”
“You working for New York on this?”
“I’m reporting to High Oracle Gagliano. He gave me a letter.” Dropping the name of the former head of the Lucchese family to a mafioso like Tomasso had the intended effect. He straightened instantly, as if Gagliano were watching and judging in that very room.
“Fine. Meet Mario,” the boss said. He indicated the small, mouse-like man with wide ears. “He was with Jacono, working a small task after lunch.”
“Jacono is the dead man?”
The wide-eared man stepped forward. “That’s right,” Mario said. “Sonuvabitch got shot.”
“What was the task?”
“Nothing big. We was opening some boxes and kicking crap into the river down by the piers. These three guys showed up though, with these bolt cutters? They’d been cutting the locks and walking up and down the river.”
“Three guys? What did they look like?” the Baron asked.
“All three were in suits. They were looking tweaked. Blow, I think. Racoon eyes. The ugliest bastard was all pale and sweaty, like he had the flu or something.”
“I need identifying features. Facial hair, structure, particular clothes.”
“Black mustache on the ugly man. He didn’t speak much either, but he did lots of nodding whenever the other two asked for directions. Clean shaven on the other two. No chin on one, hair too long. Reminded me of one of them monks from the movies. Robin Hood fellow.”
“Friar Tuck?” the Zombie asked.
“Yeah. The other guy was good looking. An asshole though. He wouldn’t shut up.”
“What happened when they found you?” the Baron asked.
“They already had their guns out.” Mario frowned. “Like they was hunting us or something. Jacono said it was alright, he knew those guys, but they told him to throw his piece in the river. Real nice gun too. I chased it to the bottom with my piece of shit. Then they said they wanted to talk us up about the task we were finishing. I said sure, but they said, one at a time.”
“They were isolating you?” the Baron asked.
“Yeah, well, sorta. They took Jacono first, but they didn’t stop me from following. They didn’t seem to care as long as I couldn’t hear.”
“They let you witness the murder?”
“I don’t think it was meant to be a murder, least not at first. They walked us to the block by the old office building—it’s too far south for the patrols—and they started grilling Jacono in the middle of the road, yelling at him real loud.”
“What about?”
“First about some shit in his pockets, but he didn’t have nothing but his wallet. Then they asked a bunch of questions about his friends. Jacono didn’t have much to say to that.”
“A man with no friends?” the Zombie asked.
“Jacono is—well, was all business. He killed two men in the war, and you’d think that would’ve humbled the man, but not Jacono. Something about war just sucked the feelings right out of him. He was colder than frost.”
The Baron carefully swallowed and continued rubbing his bruise. The deep pain was subsiding to a heavy throb, but he’d have a dark bruise there for days. Enzu hit hard.
Mario continued, “The quiet guy with the mustache didn’t like his attitude. I think he was their boss or something? He was getting upset, even though he wasn’t saying a word. He kept tapping the other two on their shoulders and whispering into their ears. Jacono didn’t like that and kept yelling, ‘speak up, speak up,’ but that made the boss really pissed. He had the chinless guy punch Jacono a few times, just a beating around the ribs, but enough to hurt.”
“Did he fight back?” the Zombie asked quietly.
“You’d think he would, wouldn’t you?” Mario rubbed his face with a palm. “I don’t know what got into him. Jacono was all placid, really rolling with the punches. I think the mooks yelling at him thought they were getting somewhere, but the boss wasn’t happy. He finally said something—I wish I could’ve heard it, but he was so damn quiet. Jacono seemed eager to please, and the mooks… Ah, shit, that pale motherfucker.” Mario took a deep breath. “Look, I hated Jacono. There’s no tears here, man, but it was awful. The boss pulled out this huge revolver like he was going to plug a bear in the mountains or something. He shot Jacono in the chest. Just executed him in the street. I don’t think Jacono really saw it coming. Them boys didn’t either. The mooks I mean? They were shitting themselves.”
“They didn’t know the boss was going to murder Jacono?” the Baron asked.
“They were jumping back. Jacono panicked. He made some kind of wish, I don’t know what it was. Maybe to dodge, maybe something else. I don’t blame him. The boss plugged the asphalt twice after the gods snatched Jacono, screaming like he’d shot himself. There was blood and bullets on the ground. The mooks were looking at me, yelling something. I was already halfway down the block though and couldn’t make out a word. The boss made a wish then, like, you could feel it. You could hear it. He cleaned the ground, pushed gravel over the bullets, even sucked up the smell of powder. Sounded like someone whipping a towel. It popped my ears.”
“Did they come after you?” the Zombie asked.
“Kind of? The mooks ran up to the alley by the office and came back out driving a sedan. They picked up the boss and started after me.”
“Do you remember the make?”
“Nah, I’m no good with cars. Only one thing stood out. They raced after me, but I was already backtracking into the warehouses, and they didn’t want to hang around after killing, not after Jacono dodged. They idled for a second in the street, then took off and went south, but I got a good look at their windows—the glass was green.”
“Green glass?” the Zombie asked the Baron.
“Tinted windows?” the Baron asked the room.
“Sounds like E-Z Green,” said one of the crew.
“I’ve only seen it once,” Mario said, “that’s all I’m saying. They drove a plain car, but they had colored glass windows. It looked like beach water. You know, from Florida?”
“We ain’t all been to Florida,” Boss Tomasso said.
“Did you catch any license plate numbers?” the Baron asked.
“No. The plates were off,” Mario replied.
“Not much help,” the Zombie muttered.
“It’ll do,” the Baron replied quickly. “It’s good info.” They could use the green glass to potentially ID the killer. “One more question, Mario. Did Jacono act weird or mention anything interesting in the last few days? Doesn’t matter how strange it is. It might help us identify his killers.”
“No, not much to say. Jacono isn’t a talker.”
“Any breaks from his routine?”
“Sure, he left work early on Thursday. Don’t know where he went though.”
“Think he was with the crew scuttling the ship?”
“I wouldn’t write it off, but Jacono was born for the Luciano, and he still didn’t have any friends here. They were an Anastasia crew on that one, uh, the Ozone Park Boys.”
“Jacono wasn’t likely to work with them?”
“Not unless one of them was his brother or cousin.”
The Baron asked the Zombie, “Anything else you can think of?”
The Zombie frowned. “This is a dead end.”
That wasn’t an attitude the Baron wanted the Zombie to take in front of the people he’d thrashed to get this interview, but it was true. “As I said, it’ll help soon enough. Mario, you did good. Watch your back, and if you have somewhere else to go for a week, go.”
Mario looked down at his shoes.
The Baron pulled out his wallet. “How much do you make in a week?”
“Fifty,” Mario replied quickly—too quickly.
An obvious lie, but the Baron wouldn’t dispute it. He pulled out his wallet and found the largest bill on hand. “Here’s a fifty. Get out of here for a week.”
Mario stood and accepted the bill, moving through three emotions in rapid succession. First, elation. Then disbelief. Then the realization that if he was seeing this, he was fucked. Money never came in sizes that large, not without a hidden price.
“My wife ain’t going to believe I didn’t steal it,” Mario joked.
Nobody laughed, not even him. This much money wasn’t a curse, but it was physical proof that his life was in danger.
“Now what?” the Zombie asked the Baron. “Back to the hotel?”
“No,” the Baron said. “We’ll see if we can interview the dead.”
Author’s Note:
We’re done brawling, but we’re not heading home yet. The dead can speak secrets, and our boys might need a few to crack this case.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
Join the Discord to discuss the story and hang out with other readers!
Join the Patreon to support the story and access 4 weeks of early chapters!
