After leaving the 8th Street Bookstore, the Baron was forced to idle on a payphone call near Tompkins Square Park. The operator on the other end wasn’t allowed to merely swap the plugs on the Tammany Hall switchboard without question. Secret procedures had to be followed, and approval from jumped up functionaries had to be acquired. Such was life in the world of global powers and secret cults.
After about fifteen minutes of bouncing from skeptical secretaries to mid-level management, they finally found someone who’d met the Baron before and could confirm his voice over the phone.
“State your name and intentions,” said a very, very old man.
“I’m Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach, and I need to report my plans to the High Oracle himself, per his standing request for my operations inside his city.”
“Ah. It’s you,” the old man replied bitterly. “The operator will handle it.”
After another click, a beleaguered operator took over, and the Baron waited another ten minutes until someone could transfer him to the High Oracle’s personal line. Oracle Gagliano was sixty-eight, already one year retired, but he was still willing to speak with “the Devil himself,” so long as he had something interesting to say.
A soft click on the line signalled the end to an interminable wait. A loud sniff followed it. Then Gagliano rasped: “Baron d’Holbach. What are you calling me for?”
“Good morning, High Oracle. There was a dead man in the 8th Street Bookstore.”
“Yes—one of our secretaries called the store to warn Maurice.” A shuffle—the sound of the phone being moved around on the desk. “Is that why you called me?”
“No, High Oracle. The cultist looked like he might be Cosa Nostra.”
“That’s because he is, Baron.” The disdain in Gagliano’s voice was thicker than honey. “Are you going to say something I don’t already know? Or should I hang up the phone?”
The Baron had expected this response, but he’d needed to make sure Gagliano was on the same page before dropping the actual news. “I’ll be investigating the murder, High Oracle. Per our Salem agreement, I’m required to inform you of my operational goals.”
There was no response. Not even the sound of breathing.
“We’ll be heading down to the docks soon,” the Baron added.
“That’s very generous,” Gagliano said curtly.
The Baron waited for further explanation, but nothing happened. No approval. No rejection. More silence. He decided to fish for a favor. “It’d be easier if I could meet with the local boss.”
“It would be,” Gagliano agreed.
“Could you get me his name and address?”
Finally, there was an audible intake of breath, a sound of frustration. “Why do you need to know them exactly?”
“Honestly, High Oracle, I can’t say. Not yet.” Mentioning the Cat o’ Nine Lives would be like lighting a stick of dynamite to illuminate a dark room inside a dusty fertilizer factory, and any unannounced investigation would indicate that he had something to hide. Furthermore, any lies would be checked and found wanting. Only this deliberate obfuscation gave Gagliano the least reason to suspect anything truly significant was happening in his city.
“Not yet?” Gagliano asked after a few seconds of reflection.
“It’s basic client privacy. I’ll tell you everything when it’s over.”
“Well, then we’re tigers of a similar stripe, aren’t we? I can’t say anything about the local boss. Not to you. Not yet.”
“Not until I tell you why I’m going?”
“Exactly. Call me back if you change your mind. I trust you won’t make a mess in the meanwhile.”
“Not in the middle of your territory.”
The High Oracle hung up.
The Zombie was standing outside the phone booth, staring down pedestrians while eating literal handfuls of grass and bird seed that he’d scooped up off the park lawn. The Baron hung up the phone and stepped outside, meeting his friend’s gaze.
“What’s the news?” the Zombie asked through a half-full mouth, spitting wet bird seed and fluttering shreds of grass onto the sidewalk.
The Baron ignored the mess. “Gagliano is irate, but he’s not trying to stop us.” He peered down the street, towards a smoke shop a couple of blocks west. “I’m going to buy a cigar. Then we’ll take a Checker and start our investigation at the docks. Hopefully we finish before lunch.” He glanced meaningfully towards the Zombie’s hands. “Do you want anything from the shop? A pipe to chew on? Something made of glass?”
“Do you think they have marbles?”
“No.”
“I’m fine then.” The Zombie held up a fistful of grass. “Mind if I finish this first?”
The Baron shrugged. “Just keep things clean.”
The ride to the East River Docks wasn’t particularly long, but there was enough time for the Zombie to pick up and eat all the grass that he’d spilled onto the cab floor.
The Baron tipped the cabbie handsomely.
After they arrived, they split up along the waterfront, looking for witnesses, signs of activity, or anything else interesting. The Zombie jogged north, seeking beggars and men of low stature who might’ve heard a gunshot; the Baron walked southeast, hoping to find secular laborers working the East River on a Saturday morning.
They planned to rendezvous in only a quarter hour. The Baron didn’t expect to travel far, but a good vantage point would do most of the work in the least time. He ambled towards the river, passed right over the sidewalk, and needled through a line of squat warehouses. White-painted walls were awash in grey dust and crusted at the corners with an era’s worth of grime. The push of grass and small flowers suggested disuse. Nobody washed the walls or the alleys.
A padlocked gate barred the path between two walls, but he leaned down to the lock and whispered, “I wish you were open,” and it was. With a rattle of chains and a squeal of hinges, he reached the banks of the river itself, scanning everything with attentive eyes.
Solitude colored this stretch of open waters. There was nobody else working on a Saturday morning; or at least, they’d all fled after the shooting. At a surface level, this was a waste of time and prestige. Yet he watched, soaking in the details and comparing them to his memories. So much was the same, if not for the isolation.
Here, the docks rose out of opaque waters. Heavy currents stirred the sediment and tugged at the thick, tarry pilings. For the sake of the moored boats and as protection against the tide and weather, all of the piers were paired up and covered with wide wood-roofed tunnels ending at concrete boat launches, which connected them to the banks. These launches ramped up into the warehouses, and one roof—merged into a single stretch by decades of patchwork construction—saddled those buildings for kilometers in either direction.
These padlocked gates and doors kept pedestrians from moving up and down the waterfront unseen, but sometimes, with the right connections and keys, the way was opened for smuggling. The Baron knew that would be the East River’s most lucrative business these days.
A century ago, this had been a better place. The warehouses had been the industrious heart of a district. Privately owned merchant ships had flourished on the water. The docks had been a shelter even for those just passing through, a stopping point along the tidal strait connecting Upper New York Bay to Long Island Sound. It’d been a place for rich sailors to rest for a night, an integral part of the gateway to the Atlantic Ocean.
Unfortunately, times changed and technology allowed mankind to engineer a new coast for Lower New York Bay. With better planning and calmer currents, Brooklyn could handle larger shipments from today’s modern manufacturers. Bigger boats could safely dock, and a well-funded Port Authority could ensure safety and order. The artificial port had proven superior, and the industry of the East River had all but disappeared. What remained was mostly private fishing and recreational boating, and the empty warehouses stood like skeletons of better times.
The Baron turned away from the warehouses, relocked the gate, and met up with the Zombie one block from the water. He found him just outside a late 19th-century office building, which had been erected to house import / export businesses bringing in small commodities from along the Eastern seaboard. Now it was mostly empty but for the bottom floor, and while signs suggested that a tax assessor operated out of the block, he wasn’t in on Saturdays.
“He does taxes,” the Zombie noted, looking over the signs, “that means something.”
The Baron frowned. “What? You want to dig through someone’s records?”
“Yeah, you wanted the local mob boss. He has properties, right?”
“Of course.”
“On paper, they’d make money—stand out in this dump.”
“Sure.”
“And once we have some addresses, we could knock on some doors.”
The Baron dismissed the idea with a wave. “We don’t have that kind of time. Let’s stick with eyewitnesses. Were you able to question anybody about the site of the shooting?”
The Zombie smirked. “Yeah, some beggars heard a gunshot a few blocks north of here. The police poked their nose in around half an hour ago, but nobody came up with anything.”
“Did you look at the site?”
“No. You said to meet up here at eleven-thirty.”
“I’ll want to take a look at the place anyways.” Baron d’Holbach opened his jacket and picked out a steel cigar case from his inner pocket.
“Oh! Did you get anything for me?” the Zombie asked like a hopeful child.
The Baron paused. The Zombie had explicitly declined anything, and yet here he was, begging like a dog in order to tease his friend. “You know what?” the Baron asked.
“What?” the Zombie replied.
“The case was pretty cheap.” He popped the lid, took out his precut cigar, and held out the steel tube to the Zombie.
The Zombie grinned. “You shouldn’t have.”
“You’re right,” the Baron said, “I shouldn’t reward your bad behavior, but here we are.”
Grinning broadly, the Zombie took what was offered and started slamming the open end of the steel tube against his palm. For a normal person, this would’ve sliced open skin. For the Zombie, it was a fun test.
Meanwhile, the Baron took his zippo and ran the flame gently over the tip of the cigar.
There was a metal crinkle. The tube suddenly collapsed in the Zombie’s palm like it was made of cardboard. The Zombie laughed. “Oh man, seven strikes to break it down.” He started trying to crumple the tube up a little further. “This’ll take a bit.”
The Baron carefully drew a few times, then opened his mouth and blew away the first peppery mouthful of smoke. It wasn’t a particularly expensive cigar, but the best cigars wouldn’t be found in a place that sold loose leaf tobacco by the pound. The Baron believed that price wasn’t the biggest factor in any case. Skill was more than half the enjoyment of cigar smoking. The flavor and energy of each draw was affected by the talent of the smoker, and he had more experience than anyone else on Earth. The burn was mechanically even, and he waited just long enough for the tip to cool before drawing again.
“I needed this cigar,” he told the Zombie.
“Yeah. Concentration. I know.” The Zombie was clapping his hands over the jagged crumple of steel, waiting for it to collapse as arbitrarily as it had the first time.
“Come on. We’ll walk there.”
The Zombie led the way, though his attention was centered on his hands. He was slowly smoothing the jagged edges of the crumpled steel ball. The Baron followed behind him, concentrating on his smoke. Finally, the ball smashed down twice in a row, becoming fairly compact. He showed it off to the Baron, who was appreciative.
“Very round,” he said.
The Zombie popped it in his mouth, chewed noisily for a moment, and then pulled out the steel shaped into a little toothmarked patty. “Aren’t those aromatic?” he asked.
“Very,” the Baron said.
“I don’t know how you can enjoy a smoke with the East River right there.”
“Do you remember Europe? Do you remember how it used to smell?”
The Zombie shrugged and nibbled at the edges of his steel mess. “I honestly didn’t pay that much attention at the time. Nobody washed.”
“You still don’t wash.”
“I don’t have to. It’s too bad that you don’t wash though.”
“Lies and slander. I picked up pipe smoking to stop smelling the alleyways.” He made another draw on his cigar, swirled the smoke around his mouth and blew it out. “And you.”
The Zombie popped the steel wad back in his mouth and started chewing until it began to make the creaking, squeaking sounds of shredding metal. “Oh, here we are,” he said with his mouth deliberately full, spraying little flecks of steel on the ground.
The Baron hummed around his next draw. “Doesn’t look much different than anywhere else.” They were between the city block and waterfront warehousing, and the paved quasi-street before them was empty but for a few pallets leaned against the near side of an office-building. Its walls were stained with dark lichens, and a rake leaned awkwardly against its brief stoop. Several loading docks were shut and locked behind rolling, darkly painted garage doors. More pale dust gathered in the gaps. “Why here?”
The Zombie swallowed his steel. “I met a guy with only his bottom incisors. He said a gun was fired around here, where nobody worked. Doesn’t look like anyone works here, does it?”
“They dragged the dock worker to a quiet place before putting a bullet in him?”
“Something like that. Maybe he came voluntarily.”
“We know there’re witnesses. Greenwich got a call about it.”
“Tax records!” the Zombie sang out.
“No, we’re not looking for the local boss in a filing cabinet.” The Baron knocked off the ash, pulled out his zippo and carefully relit the end. “The only reason you want to go in is because you’d have to break a door and a couple of drawers.”
“Maybe,” the Zombie said coyly.
“I appreciate your love of pointless property damage, but we really don’t have the time. This shooting is going to be retold over and over in the back room of a laundromat or restaurant, and nobody will write down a word of it. What’s said now won’t be anything like what’s remembered tomorrow. It’ll change that much in the retelling.”
“You make these people sound like idiots.” He spoke with appreciation for the Baron’s disdain, not sympathy for those insulted.
“We’re all idiots then,” the Baron said. “Let’s take a look around.”
The Baron kept time with the mechanical action of smoking and paced over the ground in a methodical zig-zag. There was a patch of asphalt a few meters across where the pavement was immaculate—only dark gravel, perfectly black tar, and nothing else. Considering the amount of blood the dead man had drained all over the sanctuary carpet, there should’ve been a mess here. Someone must’ve made an inefficient wish to clean up everything.
“Find any signs of a gunshot?” he asked aloud.
“Nope,” the Zombie said. “This place is barren.”
“I think someone wished to clean the ground. Not just the blood, but everything. Maybe they were afraid of a cop smelling gunpowder. Or they were lazy.”
The Zombie joined the Baron in staring at the cleaner stretch of asphalt. “Eh, this is deliberate, not lazy. It’s too… complete. It smacks of careful thinking.”
The Baron nodded. It was a strong alternate theory. “You don’t want to leave evidence, and the only people who’ll care about the conspicuous cleanliness are already aware that someone died here.”
The Zombie adjusted his bowler to shield his eyes from the sun overhead. “Do you think this will lead to the Cat o’ Nine Lives?”
“You know how it goes. One murder after another is a symptom of two possible diseases. One is institutional fear, when crimes are committed to cover up crimes. The other is war. In either case, these are probably connected deaths. Nagy, and this man.”
“This is the wrong season for war,” the Zombie said. “Hope it’s just fear.”
“Very poetic.” The Baron walked over to the stoop, made sure it was relatively clean and sat down. “Who cleaned up here? The killers or the witnesses?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does.” The Baron let the cigar go out without another draw.
The Zombie stood by the stoop. He never sat unless he was reading or eating, and only because he liked to set things on the table. “Who has more to lose?”
“The killers. They can’t be identified after killing a New York cultist.”
“A vassal cultist,” the Zombie corrected.
The Baron wagged his cigar to knock off the cold ash. “When it comes to vassals, it’s the principle, not the person. New York’s promise is that its vassals are untouchable, and an army will come down on your head if you cross them.”
“Is that true?” the Zombie asked.
“I don’t know, but New York wants it to be true. Rumor has it that some cults are competing to join up. Better to serve than live free in the wilderness of say, Baltimore.”
“Ha. That city is a racist powder keg without a war industry.”
“I’m just saying, New York’s reputation is built on revenge. The killers must’ve cleared this place. Maybe they destroyed evidence. Maybe they were being careful. Now, the witness tells the local boss what happened, and the boss keeps his boys indoors while they report to New York. Why risk going outdoors while the pavement is bare, right?”
“Wait,” the Zombie said. “You’re thinking we’re not entirely late to the party?”
“That’s right. New York won’t be happy with people sitting tight, not inside their home city. I’m betting they’ll send a primary cultist out here to snoop around. Follow me?”
The Zombie gave the Baron a thumbs up. “The patient fisherman.”
“So let’s wait and see if someone shows up.”
“If someone does, do we push hard?”
“No, let’s play ignorant on this one. I’ll relight my cigar, say we just arrived, and offer to collaborate. Once they’re talking, then you push for the boss’s location.”
“Play it slow, low pressure?”
“Exactly. Less intimidation now means more chances to intimidate bigger men later.”
“I like that logic.” The Zombie waited with folded hands. “I wish I’d bought a copy of Amazing Stories back at the bookstore. Or brought my briefcase for that matter.”
“The bags were delivered to the Biltmore. We’ll get it when we check in.”
“Can you wish me a magazine?”
The Baron laughed. “How many lives would that magazine be worth, if it manifested out of thin air? Five? Six?”
“What’s a life, one hundred years?”
“Honestly, I have no idea how much prestige that’d cost. Might as well go for broke and wish for a fictional issue while you’re at it.”
“Haha. Do you think the gods would write the stories?”
“I don’t know if the gods could. They don’t really relate with us anymore.”
“Not in your mythology, they don’t. I bet a god would write a damn fine sci-fi story.”
“What about?”
The Zombie spread his hands wide, as if reading off a billboard. “Man proves there are no gods. What does it mean for morality?”
The Baron snorted. “Based on a true story?”
“Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.”
A few minutes later, a forest green Mercury Eight pulled through an alley to the north and started down the paved lot alongside the warehouses. It was the newest generation, bullet-shaped with headlights bulging above a chromed bumper, part of the new ostentatious economy class of vehicle. It was a screeched message, “I am middle class!”
The Baron stood up casually, pulled out his zippo, and lit his cigar again. Blowing smoke into the still air, he waved at the oncoming two-door and stepped in its way. The Zombie followed close behind.
The Mercury Eight rolled up, tires hissing on pavement, and pulled to a stop. Cheap brake pads squealed lightly. The man inside the vehicle was in his late 50s, chubby-cheeked and bearing a heavy salt-and-pepper beard. Despite the spring weather, he was dressed in a trench coat and leather gloves—a goon packing heat and planning on leaving no fingerprints.
The goon put on the parking brake and shifted his vehicle into neutral. He rolled down the window and leaned halfway out. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
The Baron looked confused and glanced at the Zombie, who frowned right back in perfect mimicry. “I’m sorry, I was going to ask you the same.” He took a draw off his cigar.
“Ask me what?” the goon said.
“What’s your name?” the Baron asked. When the goon hesitated to answer, d’Holbach relaxed his expression and said, “I’m the Philosopher, Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach. This is the Zombie.” He offered his hand to the open car window. “We’re here to investigate a body discovered at Greenwich.”
The goon accepted the Baron’s hand reluctantly. “I’m Enzu Guerra.”
“Mr. Guerra.” They shook. “Can I call you Enzu?”
“Yeah, sure.”
The Baron took another draw off his cigar. “What’re you here for, Enzu?”
“You’re the Atheist out of Boston, right?”
“I am. The High Oracle wrote me a letter of passage.”
Enzu pursed his lips. “Boss Gagliano wanted me to take a look around here.”
“The spot where the guy was shot? Yeah, we’re almost on top of it.”
“We are?” Enzu leaned out a little further, looking down at the blacktop with a squint. “Where’s the stain?”
“We think it got wiped.” The Baron took a couple of steps back and pointed to his feet. “Right here, a few meters in every direction. Someone wished to clean it up.”
Enzu leaned out a little further, but he obviously couldn’t see much of a difference from where he sat. “That so?” he asked.
“It is so,” the Zombie said.
The Baron grinned congenially. “We’ve been arguing whether or not the shooter or the local witness cleaned it up.” This was a lie, designed to fish for information. When Enzu didn’t immediately bite, he added: “We saw the cops poking around here a few minutes ago. The witness might’ve cleaned it to avoid an investigation.”
Enzu’s eyes bugged out a little. “The cops were here?” He was definitely armed.
The Zombie took a step towards Enzu, who pulled back into his car like a turtle into its shell. “Yeah, someone heard a gunshot. They didn’t find anything though.”
Enzu squinted with worry. “Did you talk to them?”
“I’d never talk to cops,” the Zombie said with a smile. “I just watched them walk around like idiots. Hey—are you going to meet with the witness any time soon? We’re not too familiar with the area, and we’d like to sort out some details with him.”
The Baron clarified quickly: “What my partner is saying is, we need a ride to the local hangout.”
Enzu was all the way back in his car now. “Sorry,” he replied quickly, “I’m not heading anywhere but back to Tammany Hall. Thanks for the tips though.”
“That’s fine. Can you give us directions before you go?”
Enzu shook his head in short, rapid jerks, almost like a twitch. “Sorry, I don’t know the area that well. I’m just from Tammany.” He started rolling up his window, then paused with an inch left and yelled, “I’ve got to go. Again, thanks for the tip!” The window went all the way up, and he popped the parking brake and shifted into reverse.
The Baron cast his most disappointed look at the Zombie as Enzu executed a three point turn and left the way he came. The tall immortal began to grin, wider and wider as the car retreated.
“Just—” the Baron began to say as the car turned the corner, but the Zombie took off, sprinting for the alley, and d’Holbach was forced to yell after him: “Just get the first street he turns onto!” Then d’Holbach walked after him, methodically puffing on the remains of his cigar.
Once he reached the alley, he could see the Zombie standing at the far corner, peering around the rough brick trim. “Two blocks north!” the Zombie called out.
The Baron caught up to him a few seconds later. “It makes sense. The boss won’t be far from the docks. Five dollars says we’ll see the Mercury parked somewhere close to that intersection. Hell, we could probably recognize the front business.”
“I’m not wasting five bucks.” The Zombie breathed deep, nose flaring like he’d caught the scent of a wounded animal. “But I am looking forward to knocking on some doors.”
The Baron chuckled. “You think they’ll let us in?”
“Hell no. We’re outsiders, and they aren’t afraid anymore. We’ll have to break in.”
The Baron smiled around the stump of his cigar. Criminal trespassing wasn’t the noblest act, but nobody finished a high-stakes investigation without putting pressure on someone somewhere, and his friend’s enthusiasm was infectious. “I hope you’re wrong, but if you’re right, then you’re right. People need to know what it means when we come knocking.”
Author’s Note:
Delicious, delicious grass, gang. Eaten by a monster out of legend.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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