Martin walked out into the hall. Barilla came around his desk, patted Phyllis on the shoulder as he passed, and went out the door. “Come along, Baron!”
“It’ll have to do,” the Baron whispered to the Zombie.
The Zombie nodded and went out the door first. Barilla and Martin were standing just a few feet down the hall. The Baron paused behind the Zombie, physically shielded.
“Miles!” Barilla shouted at the kid stopping the door. “Get inside, shut the door, and don’t come out unless I say so. Grown men are talking.”
“Sir!” The kid nearly jumped. The door slammed shut in his wake.
Once it was clear from their relaxed stances that neither side planned violence, at least not immediately, Barilla stepped in front of Martin and the Baron stepped in front of the Zombie. Their human weapons were behind them. It was time to talk.
The Baron lobbied one more time for privacy. “Anyone can be a risk, especially if they have a criminal history. They’ll have skeletons in their closet—potential leverage.”
“Sure, sometimes,” Barilla said, “but Martin here is in my pocket. I know where the bodies are buried.” He jabbed a thumb at the man behind him. “Nobody can squeeze this guy. Not some made up goon you’re pissing and moaning about. This ain’t a spy flick.”
The Baron didn’t respond to the paltry insult. Barilla was naturally aggressive, and neither antagonism nor appeasement would help. The only path out was disengagement, which would eventually drive Barilla to ask him to speak—to give up momentum to the Baron.
Barilla continued. “You think you’re clever, but you drop hints like Martin here takes a shit. It’s loud, it’s noisy, it stinks down the hall.”
“Hints for what?” the Baron said flatly.
“You want me alone for something, fine, but then you start giving Phyllis the evil eye and everything but the kiss of death, and I have to wonder, who is this man? What does he know about my second-in-command?”
“Even I could tell you were threatening the lady,” Martin said.
“Shut it!” Barilla said, “Baron? Baron and Zombie? What kind of titles are those? If it weren’t for Phyllis, I’d think you were a pair of idiots like the priest out front.”
“He’s not an idiot,” the Zombie said matter of factly.
“Shut it!” Barilla shouted. “Jesus Christ, don’t you know when you’re being talked at? Were you raised by the circus? If you don’t have manners, at least pay attention. Do you see where you are? Do you see who you’re alone with?”
“The boss of the docks,” the Baron said idly.
“You’re alone with us.” He indicated Martin and himself with a broad, heavy hand. “We’ve got two hundred pounds on you, and nancy suits like you aren’t armed.”
The Baron raised an eyebrow. Barilla would have it out of his system soon, but that was an irresistible prompt. “How do you know that?” he asked.
“Phyllis thinks you’re important. That means you think you’re important. You’re used to getting your way because of a reputation, but look at those hands. You work out in a gym, like all fucking nancies. You think you’re hard, but you ain’t. You ain’t hard.”
“We do get our way often,” the Baron agreed.
“Not with me, asshole,” Barilla said. “Now fess up before Martin knocks out your teeth. What do you have on Phyllis? What don’t I know?”
The Baron didn’t hesitate to answer, “Nothing.” While he could certainly gain a little of Barilla’s trust by throwing Phyllis under the bus, he’d never do it. The woman had a long occult career ahead of her, especially if she’d made it to her 40s in New York City. He could preserve her secret and still win Barilla over. It’d only take time, and while they probably didn’t have much to spend, he’d spend whatever he needed on keeping an Artemisian safe.
“Bullshit!” Barilla snorted and spat at the Baron’s feet. “Don’t make me ask again.”
The Baron looked down. At least the man hadn’t actually spat on his shoes. He picked at the corner of his eye, body language signaling a mix of exhaustion and boredom. “I think you misunderstand. Phyllis wanted to listen in. I wanted Phyllis to understand why she couldn’t. If it’d been your bodyguard speaking up, we would’ve argued with him instead.”
Barilla closed his eyes like he was getting a headache. “For God’s sake, do you hear yourself? Why do you think these people have a choice in the matter? Why do you think you have a choice?” His voice was rising. “I’m the boss here—this is my fucking wharf!” He thumped his own chest. “Tomorrow, my son is going to lead my street gang into Cougar territory, and they’re going to beat a man halfway to death, not because he did anything but just to make a bloody point. We’re not to be fucked with! We own this slice of Red Hook, and I’m in charge!” Three thumps to the sternum marked the last three words, loud enough to make it sound like Barilla was punching himself. It would’ve been intimidating to almost anyone else.
The Zombie burst into laughter instead.
Barilla shouted, “You think this is a joke?”
“He’s invincible,” the Baron said.
“What?” Barilla glanced at Martin, who was blank-faced in order to maintain an air of competency instead of confusion. “What the hell does that mean?” Barilla asked the Baron.
Now this was an opportunity. Barilla was handing him the reins. He had to gently lead him without making him feel like he’d lost control. First, a feint. “I’ll explain later,” he said dismissively. This would encourage Barilla to reask the question, to double down on his demand to be educated.
Barilla sucked in his breath, trying to control his anger. “Later?”
“You want to know now?”
“You’re fucking with me,” Barilla said.
“I’m not. The Zombie is truly invincible.” The Baron took a deep breath. “I think this requires a little explanation. You’re in charge, Barilla, I’m not challenging that—not even he’s challenging that. But I’m two hundred years old, and he’s literally invincible. Phyllis knows us because we’re famous. All that supernatural bullshit you leave to her? We drowned in it long ago.”
Barilla’s nose twisted up like he didn’t like the smell of what the Baron gave him. “You expecting me to believe that? Phyllis ain’t mentioned you before.”
“Our last visit to New York was in the 20s. Phyllis would’ve been a teenager.”
Barilla was confused. He couldn’t figure out why the Baron was making wild claims about unnatural age. “You’re half my age,” he said incredulously.
“I haven’t aged for two hundred years,” the Baron said.
Barilla turned to Martin and whispered a short, fierce phrase. The Baron couldn’t make out what was said, but he firmly believed it didn’t matter. The core problem was fast becoming clear. Barilla wasn’t as stupid as imagined. He was willfully ignorant, yes, but while that was foolish, it was also focused, and this man was knee-deep in violence and death. He didn’t have time for something as abstract as religion, even if it had practical effects. All that mattered was the scramble to stay on top of his little corner of the underworld, and to him, the Baron’s messages weren’t about killers or tasks from the gods. They were about trust. The seeds of mistrust were planted, but he couldn’t dispose of the perceived threat. Barilla needed Phyllis terribly, and he knew it. Even as she skimmed off the top of his ignorance, she also relieved him of all obligations to the occult world. He needed to believe the Baron was a liar or a scoundrel, or his natural paranoia would overwhelm him. “Fuck me,” he said to the Baron.
The Baron didn’t blame him for this reaction. Barilla was only doing what was best for his survival under normal, secular circumstances. Unfortunately, an occult force would be coming for him soon. There was no doubt about that. The only questions were of scale and purpose. Who was coming, and how many men would they bring? How much prestige?
“Look, I can prove that I’m telling the truth. You saw that the Zombie took the knife from the boy Miles. You know it isn’t a trick blade.”
“I know he tricked the kid into handing it over,” Barilla said.
The Zombie opened the penny knife. “Do you want to see another trick?”
“No need to be that aggressive,” the Baron said promptly. “Barilla, please take the knife from the Zombie and attempt to cut his hand.”
“I’m not stepping near a man with a blade.”
“Would you rather that Martin did it?”
Barilla glanced at his man. Gave him a nod of command.
Martin circled around his boss, walked by the Baron close enough to bury him in the shadow of his bulk, and then reached the Zombie with a fat palm open to accept the knife. “How do you want me to cut you?” Martin asked.
“Do it however you like,” the Zombie said, short and curt. “Just don’t cut the shirt. I want to look nice until lunch.”
Martin wrapped his fist around the handle, took the Zombie’s hand in his own, and lightly ran the edge of the knife across the Zombie’s palm. When it didn’t cut, he glanced up at Zombie’s grin, then ran the blade across his invincible skin again. “Why aren’t you cut?” Martin asked.
The Zombie laughed lightly. “I’m invincible. Go ahead, stab down at my palm.”
Martin didn’t immediately follow directions. He sliced a third time, much harder, visibly straining like a man pressing on an iron anvil. The Zombie’s skin bent around the blade, but it did not break. Martin looked the Zombie in the eyes. The Baron could see what Martin saw. There was only joy there. It was more terrifying than confidence. It was enough to make the gangster cringe, but he turned the point down and aimed it at the Zombie’s palm.
“You might want to let my hand go. For your own safety.”
Martin released him without question, but he glanced at the Baron. “If I put this through his palm, would he go to the hospital?”
“I’d pay for anyone injured,” the Baron said.
Martin stabbed down. The blade struck the Zombie’s palm and deflected, as if he were jamming it into an immovable, friction-free surface. Martin’s arm kept going down, blade sliding between the Zombie’s fingers, his sense of balance thrown.
“Steady!” the Baron shouted.
Martin jerked back as if he were about to fall, though he wasn’t. The blade fell from his hand and clattered on the floor. “Oh, fuck,” he murmured.
The Zombie leaned over to pick up the knife, close it, and return it to his pocket.
“What the hell?” Barilla asked Martin. “Did you stab him?”
“I did, boss. Yeah.”
“You hit him dead in the palm?”
“I really did, boss.”
“Are you telling me his hand can deflect a knife?” Barilla’s tone was angry, but Martin was too smart to lie. Repeating the question wouldn’t make the truth change.
Martin nodded, stepping back. “Boss, I think he’s really invincible.”
“He is,” the Baron said. “Absolutely so.”
The Zombie took off his hat, spinning the edge of the bowler across his palm. “They once threw me into a volcano.” He tossed it up and caught it on his head. “I twitched until the stone shattered around me, and I ripped my way out of granite.”
That was a legend, not a provable historical event, but the Baron wasn’t going to undermine his friend’s message on a technicality. Instead, he moved to seal the truth in Barilla’s mind. “The Zombie is unstoppable. He’s the only reason I’m alive, and he’s proof.”
“Of what?” Barilla asked.
“Of everything! The occult, the reason I’m here to talk with you. I’m old, he’s invincible, and there are two questions I must ask before we leave.”
Martin slowly walked back behind Barilla.
The boss gave the Baron an appraising look. “That supernatural stuff ain’t right,” Barilla said. “Honest, I ain’t questioning God’s angels, but there shouldn’t be a man that nobody can kill. It just ain’t good.”
That was a Catholic interpretation for the system of prestige—that the gods were just angels directing the daily grind of ineffable purpose and divine intervention. The Baron wondered if Barilla had learned what little he knew from a Vatican cultist. If so, that’d explain his ignorance. They tended to provide little to no education for their neophytes and associates, preferring to assign tasks on authority alone. Vatican chapters were rare in New York, but a couple of them operated freely. They just paid the same tariffs as any other vassal cult.
“I agree more than you might imagine,” the Baron said. “If I even believed in the gods, I wouldn’t call them angels. They don’t care about moral good. Only men do that.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve been here longer than I wanted. Barilla, do you know what an artifact is?”
“It’s a supernatural thing; does things for you?” Barilla asked.
“Yes.” The Baron hesitated. Barilla had no clue about the importance or rarity of artifacts. The key here was to speak in a way that simplified the picture for the man, that made it easier for him to process. “Jacono gave you an artifact, yes?”
Barilla frowned. “Sure he did. Said he wanted to wash his hands of the deal, get out.”
That made sense. Jacono would’ve realized that Nagy was someone important, and being associated with his death would’ve had dangerous repercussions. Keeping the artifact would’ve been like drawing a target on his chest. Of course, trying to pawn the artifact off to Barilla hadn’t worked either. Someone still shot him dead in the street.
“New York doesn’t have it,” the Baron said, “so what happened to it?”
“I kept it. I figured if Jacono didn’t want it around, I’d just keep it hidden.”
“Did Jacono tell you how to use it?”
“He said to swallow it in an emergency and it’d protect me.”
The Baron felt a cold twinge of dread anticipation. He didn’t want to hear the answer, but he had to ask, “Did you swallow it?”
“No,” Barilla said.
d’Holbach felt relief. They wouldn’t have to cut it out of a gangster.
“Why?” Barilla asked, “It would’ve been fine if I did, right?”
The Baron rubbed his forehead with his thumb. “Yes and no. Swallowing it wouldn’t hurt you, but you’d have made a lot of enemies. Where is it now?”
“I fed it to my son,” Barilla said.
Author’s Note:
AAAAAAAA – the Baron’s thought process at this very moment.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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