On the ride back to the Greenwich Temple, the Baron stared out the cab window at the brick rowhouses in the midday sun, and he reasoned out exactly what they’d accomplished.
Breaking into the vassal meeting hall would have unfortunate repercussions. It wasn’t that New York’s cult would hold it against them, not when it was ostensibly the mistake of a meatheaded pair of door guards. Tammany would tell Boss Tomasso, “If you’d paid attention to your history lessons,” or “if your guards hadn’t been goddamn stubborn,” then the Baron and Zombie would’ve been in and out without any property damage. As it was, the Baron was doing them a favor, paying for the mess and reigning in the Zombie—that’s what New York would say. They’d treat d’Holbach and his friend as a force of nature, destructive but inevitable, part of the cost of doing occult business on the eastern coast of the United States.
The real problem was that they’d invaded a Cosa Nostra hideout and made a lot of noise. People would notice that a severe offense had been dealt to the boss, and Tomasso had left it unchallenged—his belly exposed to his ruthless competition. Sooner or later, the Cosa Nostra would respond to the Baron’s actions. They wouldn’t go after him directly, not with the threat of the Zombie looming like nuclear war and mutually assured destruction, but there’d be either a favor demanded or the offense returned at some point in the future.
Another entry was added to the bill of life, the Baron thought, and they’d be tallying up several more before they left this city. At least there were some benefits too. The Zombie’s reputation and even his legend would be renewed, and that was good for everyone. Knowledge was vital in the occult world. Ignorance could kill.
The world changed too quickly. Invention brought hope, but time eroded man’s wisdom like sandcastles in the tide. Right after the failed Salem task in 1914, every cultist within 300 miles had recognized them on sight and treated them with respect, if only as a matter of self-preservation. Everyone understood the risk. If just one person didn’t understand the consequences of their actions—if just one person killed the Baron—so many would die.
The legends were numerous and terrifying. Entire kingdoms had been overthrown by invincible hands. Royal courts had been cleared, armies scattered, boats sunk, fields burned and cults literally strangled to death, one throat at a time.
Of course, the Zombie was a great friend. The Baron couldn’t imagine spending the centuries without him. Still, he was also the Zombie’s conscience, and it frightened any man of good sense that within twenty-five years, a new generation came along and forgot all the lessons that their predecessors had learned with blood. They doomed themselves to repeat the mistakes of the past, to rediscover the threats of cultic legend.
One could only trust that the next generation and their new ideas would somehow improve upon the old. Any other belief would lead to cynicism and despair.
He turned to the Zombie, who was lost in his own particular form of introspection. The partition window was shut, so they could have a quiet conversation. “Thank you for sparing Enzu’s life, my friend. We need allies in New York, and he’ll remember your mercy.”
The Zombie roused. He had a serious expression, suggesting a rich internal conflict that he would honestly claim wasn’t there. “I’m glad I didn’t kill him,” he admitted softly, “but I won’t spare everyone that threatens you. Remember that.”
“Of course. The Pact keeps me alive.”
The Zombie nodded solemnly, satisfied with that answer. “Honestly, it’s enough that I half-killed him.”
“Why’s that?”
“There’ll be people lining up to yell at him for hitting you. Nobody would be thinking about that if he was dead.” The Zombie leaned towards the Baron. “Changing tracks, who are you planning on talking to at the Temple? Is it Jacono? You think he was made?”
“Yeah, Jacono,” the Baron said. “I’m guessing New York assigned him as part of the team to scuttle the boat.”
“I figure someone would’ve mentioned that.”
The Baron shrugged. “Think about it. He had Naval Reserve tattoos, but they said he was in the war, so he must’ve deployed in the Pacific theater. It only really occurred to me after Mario described his personality. They acted like he was a bastard, but they kept him around.”
“He sounded like a piece of shit,” the Zombie said.
“That’s the thing. All else being equal, Tomasso would’ve fired Jacono and shipped him off to some backwater burg to watch people cut dope for nickels on the hour, but he didn’t, so yeah, I’m thinking he was a made man for Tammany and the Cosa Nostra both.”
In the occult sense, a made man was someone granted enough prestige to wish for the hereafter—to go to the gods when they died. A portion of those lucky few would be the children of nobility like the young Osman. The rest would be zealot-soldiers for the New York cult, and Jacono fit that model to the letter. Relatively speaking, these made men were rare, but they were valuable for their secular combat skills and fearlessness through faith.
“But why would he be working the boat job?” the Zombie asked.
“Any vassal cult would’ve had at least one made man on hand during an important task. They can report back if everyone dies.”
“True.”
“The rest is just guesswork, but you heard what Mario said. A man on cocaine shot someone in broad daylight, and the victim didn’t expect it to happen. Sounds like a deal gone bad.”
“I admit, it is suspicious.”
“And we have the dead man’s name, so I’m going to follow it up, see if he has anything to say. Assuming he was made, this is our best shot.”
“Assuming he was made,” the Zombie agreed.
If Jacono were a made man, then they were in some sense lucky that his evil had earned him an unjust and undeserved reward. There weren’t any other obvious sources for information about the task to scuttle the ship, and Jacono had died today. The best time to question his spirit was now, while he’d still be capable of caring about this world.
About a week after death, most dead could barely muster attention for anyone except friends, family, and loved ones. And after a month? The dead rarely responded then, and if they did, they were supremely disinterested in the affairs of the living.
Nobody was sure why inhabitants of the hereafter quickly abandoned their emotional investments in this mortal coil. Every cult had their own explanation, most of which boiled down to the belief that paradise lay beyond death, and it was bigger and better and even more real than this world. A few believed cynically that it was a draining darkness, barely preferable to the simple oblivion that awaited those who didn’t wish for salvation, but these people tended to remain quiet. Being outed as a heretic was a quick way to lose your cultic ties.
Nobody would ever know the truth because the dead never spoke about the experience of death, the nature of the gods, or the nature of the hereafter. Neophytes often asked them, but the dead simply didn’t respond, and nobody knew if they could even hear the questions.
Death kept its mysteries.
Still, the Baron was hopeful. There was no other reason the Cosa Nostra would’ve tolerated or trusted a cold-blooded killer like Jacono unless he was proven to be an unwavering devotee of the cult. Murderers in-general were a liability if they didn’t have loyalty.
Sometimes it bothered the Baron to know that he worked on behalf of criminal organizations with large body counts, but his discomfort was often far less important than the job. In his heart, he was selecting the lesser of two evils, and even the most virtuous man had to act with the tools at hand or stand aside while the secular world careened towards nuclear Doomsday. Compromise wasn’t equivalent to the approval of moral evil; it was the recognition that the path with the most possible good inevitably allowed for a small degree of bad.
He hadn’t yet found a better way to live, and he couldn’t abide fleeing to a hermitage. His conscience wouldn’t let him, knowing he had the means and resources to shift the world towards a greater ontological good. He’d never sit back and watch civilization die in nuclear fire.
After paying the fare, the Baron and the Zombie were dropped off outside the 8th Street Bookstore. Just inside the entrance, the young Osman was standing by a rack of popular magazines, looking vaguely dazed. Recognition of the Baron didn’t bring him any relief, but he seemed eager to talk and opened his mouth the moment they were inside.
“It’s been busy,” Osman said. “They’re dividing up the… trash.”
The Zombie grinned for the first time since they’d left the East River. “Did they divide it with a bonesaw? Or was someone picking at the gristle with a steak knife?”
Osman looked distressed. He was taking the Zombie seriously, like a dull-witted audience shocked by dark humor. He implicitly believed that because he took the world seriously, it would always take him seriously as well.
“We’re not here to work on the disposal,” the Baron said. “We need to get back into the temple, and I need to report to the Greenwich Oracle. Is he here?”
“Maurice? I haven’t seen him leave. Here, I’ll unlock the door for you.”
The Zombie picked up a copy of Amazing Stories off the display and sniffed the glossy cover noisily. Osman hesitated. The Zombie laughed.
“Why are your clothes torn up?” Osman asked him.
“I was shot and stabbed.” The Zombie reached into a pants pocket and pulled out a dime. “Here, ring me up for the sci-fi rag.”
Osman held out his palm, and the Zombie dropped the dime daintily and started for the temple door. Osman hurried along to let them up, and after fumbling with the keys, he had the door open. A shout came down the stairs.
“Who is it?” Porter yelled. “We’re closed up here.” The tall cultist came running down the steps. “Gods damnit Osman, you can’t open the door for anyone.”
“It’s the Zombie,” the neophyte said.
Porter came into view. “Oh! Oh—good on you, Osman. You’re learning.”
“They need to speak with Maurice—”
“Yeah, send ‘em up, lock the door after us.” Porter waved them in.
The temple was running double security, a sensible move after an unexpected death. Likely they’d wrap the pieces of Jacono in trash bags and carry them down a fire escape in the back, but until then, they had to keep watch over the main entrance.
The Baron and Zombie followed Porter up the steps.
The cultist paused at the top landing and said, “Fair warning, Baron. They’re butchering the dead guy.”
“Right in the middle of the temple hall?” the Baron asked.
“They’ve completed all the funeral rites already. It’s easier, I guess.”
Funeral rites could mean anything from a classic Christian rite to a completely cultic ritual. If Jacono was a made man, they’d be honoring his corpse as the vehicle that carried his soul from labor to labor until he’d earned enough prestige to buy salvation.
“What creed was Jacono?” the Baron asked.
“Is that the dead man? I don’t know. They’re just doing the standard New York stuff. They put a penny in his mouth.” Porter opened the door at the top of the stairs, but closed his eyes and turned away. He wasn’t interested in seeing a man broken down, and the Baron could guess why. There was something unwholesome about the similarity of human flesh and raw pork. The Baron entered the hall and shut the door after the Zombie was through. Porter remained on guard.
The corpse was already in pieces on the nearest table. A tidy old man in an apron was sawing at stiff joints on dismembered legs. The rest of the body was fortunately nestled in black plastic. Jacono had spent hours bleeding out; his meat was mostly dry, but the butcher’s waistline was brushed with the slightest smear of ruddy darkness, and the cleaver was greasy. Nobody else stood around the table, at least not while he performed this thankless deed.
“Who are you?” the butcher asked.
“I’m the Baron d’Holbach. This is the Zombie. We’re looking for the local Oracle. We can identify the dead man.”
The old man pointed with the cleaver like a steel flag. “He’s at his desk.”
“Thanks.” Notably, the butcher didn’t ask for Jacono’s name. He simply didn’t care. After dozens of disposals, it’d be easy to stop caring. He was the criminal equivalent of a medical examiner, professional and practiced. Beneath his hands, there wasn’t a dead person—there was only the work, the orderly breakdown and eventual cremation of inconvenient flesh.
They followed the aisle up and down the varying levels to the Oracle’s desk at the end of the row. The Greenwich Oracle, Maurice, was carefully writing in his record book with his fountain pen. Beautiful calligraphy spread across the page, a summary of recently completed tasks in the neighborhood and the rough value of prestige awarded. The chilly smell of alcohol rose from the fresh ink. He glanced up at them. “Baron.” He returned to the page.
The Baron took a seat at the desk without waiting for an invitation. The Zombie stood behind him, folding over the cover of the magazine and reading quietly. Maurice was closed in now, forcibly concentrating on the task at hand; either he’d shut down after the butchery started, distancing himself from the morbid reality in his temple, or he’d caught word of the Zombie’s assault on the meeting hall and felt vaguely responsible. Maybe both.
“The dead man’s last name is Jacono,” the Baron said.
Maurice frowned at his pages. “Yes, Tomasso called us with the news, and then the High Oracle called after him. You can imagine the conversations I’ve had.”
“Ah, of course.”
Maurice looked up, holding the pen nib away from the paper. “I believe you said we would share information for our mutual benefit.”
“Which is why I’m here,” the Baron said.
“You didn’t tell me that you’d attack our vassals.”
“I didn’t have to.” The Baron placed his hands on the table. “It’s part of our deal with the High Oracle. Cultists in New York territory are obligated to talk with us—even vassals are—and we’re allowed to enforce that agreement without any complaints from New York.”
Maurice frowned. “I understand, and the vassals brought it on themselves, but I want you to understand something in return. We can’t fully control them, and it takes effort to moderate them. The High Oracle himself is going to spend all afternoon on the phone.”
The Baron could sense the Oracle’s frustration. He didn’t want any involvement in ongoing political conflicts with New York vassals; he was implicitly pleading for the Baron to own the blowback of that morning’s events. “We can handle any consequences,” the Baron insisted. “The only thing I need from New York is a general reminder of the Zombie’s Pact.”
“Oh, we’re reminding them, Baron! We are!” He gestured towards a wall with a pen, presumably towards Tammany itself. “A dozen Tammany operators are going to be calling all afternoon, flapping their gums at errand boys. Everyone is going to hear that you’re back.”
“Good,” the Zombie said, his only contribution to the conversation so far.
“Thank you,” the Baron added more kindly.
Maurice shrugged. “Thank the High Oracle, then do him a favor. He told me to ask you to lay low till tomorrow morning.”
The Baron grimaced. “You can ask, but I’m not inclined to do it.”
The Oracle finally set down his pen, aghast. “Why wouldn’t you?”
The Baron couldn’t say that they were under time constraints—that’d reveal too much about their mission—but he could make an emotional appeal. “There’s six good working hours left in the day. If we need to talk to people, I want to interview them soon. Not tomorrow.”
Maurice squinted through his thick glasses, as if he’d suddenly developed a new level of astigmatism. “They won’t open their doors, Baron. Not while rumor goes round about Tomasso’s boys getting whipped in his own clam bar.”
“They should—”
“Yes, they should!” Maurice interrupted. “But you’ve already flexed your muscles, and we need time, Baron! We’re making calls, changing minds! We want people to know they should open doors before you go knocking again. Why on Earth wouldn’t you give us that time?”
Shit. There was no answer the Baron couldn’t give that would seem suspiciously stubborn. He supposed this was the cost of a forced entry this morning, an afternoon of lost work. “Fine,” he agreed. “After we’re done here, we’ll head to the Biltmore and lay low until tomorrow. Then it’s back to work. No complaints?”
The Greenwich Oracle relaxed. “No complaints from us, Baron. I’ll make sure Gagliano knows you’re doing him the favor.” He cast a meaningful look at the Zombie, who ignored him and continued reading. After a moment of indecision, he returned his attention to the Baron. “Did you learn anything important that the vassals might’ve left out of the report?”
The Baron nodded exactly once. “I think Jacono was a made man.”
“Hmm… Cosa Nostra or?”
“Both Sicilian and New York cult. The locals hated him, but the boss kept him on board. He sounded like a psychopath.”
Maurice leaned back in his chair, looking up towards the strip of sky peeking through the ridgelights. “I hadn’t heard anything about that. Jacono isn’t a name I recognize though. Who inducted him, assuming he was made?”
“I don’t know. I’m not much of an expert on the Five Families. Someone said Luciano?”
“That’s a secular family, but Luciano doesn’t have many of their men in the cult. Jacono might be Lucchese; that’d make him one of Gagliano’s hitmen. Then again, Tweed was recruiting veterans after the war and assigning them to various vassals. It’s hard to say without checking the records. You think he already had the afterlife?”
The Baron rapped his knuckles on the desktop. “Exactly. It’s all speculation, but it fits. Either that or Boss Tomasso was holding onto a firecracker with his bare hands.”
“Well, it’d explain a lot about the murder, but it asks more questions than it answers.” Maurice steepled his fingers under his chin. “Revenge killing?”
The Zombie flipped down his magazine. “It’s a coverup. Based on the story I heard at the docks, Jacono knew something that he wasn’t supposed to tell.”
“What do you think he knew?” Maurice asked.
The Zombie’s answer was to flip the magazine back up and ignore the Oracle.
Maurice looked to d’Holbach. “Do you have any thoughts on this?”
“Not yet, but I came back here to speak with him. If he’s in the hereafter, he might be able to identify his killer or at least the motive for his murder.”
“And you think he’ll listen to you?” Maurice asked.
“I’d hope so. We’re currently investigating his death.”
“And you’re making the wish?” Maurice clarified.
“Yes,” the Baron said. “I want to remember the answers easily, if that’s fine with you?”
That was a sentiment Maurice would understand entirely. Whenever the gods added knowledge to the wisher’s mind, it was deeply inserted and took months to forget. An Oracle could reliably recall details about tasks given years ago. The record book was almost unnecessary, but it served as a public way of preserving occult history, and in the rare cases where tasks remained outstanding, the records could be accessed without spending the Oracle’s time recalling what was and wasn’t already completed.
The Oracle opened a drawer and pulled out a sheet of standard line paper and a metal ballpoint. “All right. I’m ready when you are.”
“Zombie,” the Baron asked, “any suggestions?”
The invincible man ignored the question in a typically rude way, talking about anything else: “Should I read about the Empire of Women or The World of Whispering Wings?”
“They both sound terrible.”
“Empire of Women it is,” the Zombie said.
The Baron laughed to himself. “He’s got nothing to add,” he said to Maurice. “Let’s get started.”
“Here’s hoping Jacono is a made man,” Maurice said.
“If he isn’t, that’s still good to know.”
Several considerations informed the Baron’s actions in the temple.
First and foremost, this wasn’t an expensive wish. By tradition, it was incredibly cheap, one of the world’s few twelve-hour wishes. Its restrictions and rules were widely believed to be the source of its low price, but the Baron usually regarded it as the occult equivalent of a party favor. It proved the hereafter was real in some sense, and it ensured that people were emotionally invested in the system of prestige and in completing otherwise awful tasks. They were on the hook, searching for immortality beyond the prison of their flesh.
Still, even if it was cheap, it wasn’t a simple wish. There were three important rules to speaking with the dead. First, one could only speak with those who’d wished to go to the gods when they died. Second, the dead couldn’t communicate their own condition, the nature of death, or the nature of the gods. Finally, the dead could only be contacted within the confines of a true temple.
These restrictions were ancient, older than any cultic tradition, and often believed to be part of the original ruleset. No explanations had ever been provided or learned from the gods. Most cultic traditions asserted that the divine mystery of death was an indescribable necessity, both purposeful and ineffable. Reality depended upon it, they said, like a building on a foundation. It supported the entire affair and was hidden by it. To inspect it directly would require the shattering of the world.
The Baron hated that logic. It was totally arbitrary, explaining only a lack of facts.
His personal guess was that the rules had been implemented when burials were ritualized, sometime in the Lower Paleolithic between 30,000 and 300,000 years ago. Whether the rules prompted the rituals or the rituals prompted the rules, he didn’t know. Maybe both changes were the result of some other incident, a discovery or a Fall.
It didn’t matter. No Fall preceding the Zombie’s was on record, and the rules about death were written in verse on the same Akkadian tablets that described the invincible man. Nothing older remained. The secular world had ground it to dust long before even the Zombie was born, and without evidence, there was no scientific point to occult theories. They were more like philosophy. And always, the dead remained silent about their fate.
The Baron could have snuck in and wished to contact the dead by himself, but he wanted to control what Jacono told the world. If Jacono had anything to do with the ship’s scuttling, and if the ship was related to Nagy or the Cat, then the Baron wanted to censor the salient details before they were jotted down in New York’s account. Meeting Maurice face-to-face was the best way to gain New York’s full trust in an incomplete report. Making this wish was a rare bid for control over information taken from the dead.
“I wish to speak with the dead man Jacono,” said Baron d’Holbach.
There was a sense of sudden potential, like static charge before a lightning bolt. Then the feeling drained out of the temple through a point somewhere overhead, and it pulled with it the smallest part of d’Holbach’s prestige. In its wake, the opposite feeling reigned, a sensory vacuum drawing the vitality out of the world like a dark singularity. He was touching the hereafter.
“He’s here,” the Baron said.
Maurice uttered quickly, as in prayer: “Gods, grant us grace as we work, for we work to earn grace.”
Jacono was there. The dead man wanted to know: Who spoke?
“I’m Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach. I’m the Philosopher.”
Thoughts formed in the Baron’s head: Jacono wasn’t interested in strangers, even those with famous names. There was nobody he expected to speak with him now. He wasn’t loved in life. Now life was over.
“He isn’t interested in talking with us. Jacono, there are two men here to listen. One is the Oracle of Greenwich Village. The other is the Zombie.”
Living myths deserved no more of Jacono’s attention than anything else. Life was hardly interesting before. It was tiresome and painful and filled with alcohol and women that made him hurt in the morning and crave them in the evening until he had them again. Life was uninteresting now, and Jacono didn’t want to think about living anymore.
“Jacono, would you answer a couple of questions?”
Questions were answered out of memory. Jacono didn’t want to remember.
“He was unhappy with life.”
Maurice scratched out the Baron’s words in shorthand. “You should ask him your questions immediately. Angry souls don’t stay long.”
“Jacono, do you know the name of your killer?” the Baron asked.
Jacono didn’t know the man who murdered him. That was one question.
“He doesn’t know. Do you know why you were killed?”
Jacono had been on the SS John G. Paines on the night it was sunk. His killer didn’t want Jacono to speak with any other survivors. That was two questions.
“Maurice, was the ship they scuttled the SS John G. Paines?”
“That’s the one. It was an old Liberty Ship.” A Liberty Ship was a rudimentary cargo ship built for use in World War II.
The Baron reported the obvious conclusion: “Then Jacono was part of the team contracted to sink the boat. He was killed to keep him from tipping off his friends, the other survivors of the task.”
“Tipping off what?” Maurice asked.
The Baron asked Jacono, “Why was the killer afraid you’d speak with the survivors?”
Jacono could’ve spoken with them about the task or the deaths of the cultists. He could’ve warned them that his killer was searching for something; if they’d picked up anything on the boat, Jacono’s word could’ve sent them into hiding. That was three questions, one more than promised. This interrogation didn’t interest Jacono. He wanted to leave.
“The others might’ve gone into hiding,” the Baron said. “The killer will be looking for the rest of the survivors. Jacono, do you know what the killer wants?”
There was an artifact called the Cat o’ Nine Lives. Jacono hadn’t heard of it before, but his killer had expected it to be on the boat.
“He’s not sure,” the Baron reported to Maurice. “Jacono, do you know the names of the other survivors? How many are there?”
Jacono was confused. He’d just named the killer’s desire. Why did the Baron lie? Why did the Baron hide the true answer, given to him by the dead?
“I’m talking about the survivors of the boat task, Jacono. We need their names.”
Why did he omit the facts? Why did he twist Jacono’s meaning to his own ends? This was appalling. A monster called a man back only to ignore his words. A fool ensured that the truth would be forgotten as soon as it was known.
“It’s very important,” the Baron insisted to Jacono. “If we figure this out, we can get justice for your death. We can restore the balance of power. Understand?”
The balance of power?
The Baron waited a long time, as if listening to a speech. “I agree, Jacono, this is a hard world for the living, but we can’t become fatalistic. The threat of nuclear war isn’t a death sentence. Life will go on, and you can still help.”
Was the Baron suggesting that Jacono’s knowledge could prevent an atomic war?
“That’s right, Jacono. Exactly that. We need the names of the other survivors.”
Seven were sent on the task. Three survived, including Jacono. The other two were Bettino Lucci and Rufino Piazzi.
“There were two other survivors from the boat. Bettino Lucci and Rufino Piazzi.”
Jacono hoped he hadn’t made a mistake, but it wasn’t really his business anymore. Let the living sort out of the lies. He was finished forever.
“He wants to go,” the Baron said, “I think for good.”
Jacono departed, letting go of whatever connections fettered him to the living world, and the hole closed up. The ambience flooded back into the void and filled the temple hall with the fullness of the day. Nothing physically changed, but everything felt more real again.
“He’s gone,” the Baron reported. “Maurice, did you write it all down?”
A few more pen scratches ended with a tap on the paper—a period. “Everything you said, word for word.”
The Baron rubbed his scalp. He could feel the dark stubble like sandpaper. “I’m certain the killer will look for the other survivors, and if he found Jacono, he can probably find them too. Do you know who has records to check if Lucci and Piazzi were also made men?”
Maurice tapped the butt of the ballpoint against the table. “Tammany Hall keeps a register of cultists, mainly to track who does and who doesn’t have a guarantee for the hereafter yet. I could call the archivist, but he won’t have their addresses.”
“Would you at least know which temple they frequent? If Tammany have records showing where they completed tasks, could someone find them in a sane amount of time?”
“I don’t know, but I can ask. I’ll have to make the call though. Tammany won’t want to hear from you again today.” He glanced at the Zombie. “Either of you.”
“That’s fine.” The Baron stood up. “When do you think you’ll have the info?” If they found the survivors quickly, they could potentially save lives and take down Jacono’s killers simultaneously, all while making massive forward progress in tracking down the Cat.
Maurice checked a pocket watch. The Baron was strangely impressed. The Oracle’s antiquarian costume even extended to his timepiece, as if Maurice had ransacked his grandfather’s closet. “They’ll have to call someone in to unlock the archives. Honestly, it’ll be tomorrow morning at the earliest. Rush or not, there are thousands of file folders to search by hand, and the archivist usually runs a response time measured in weeks. That’s assuming they’re even on record. Most of the cultists don’t bother to register with Tammany.”
The Zombie grinned over his reading material. “Organization isn’t their strong point.”
Maurice frowned but said nothing.
“Once you have something to share,” the Baron said, “would you drop a message at the Biltmore’s front desk under Dufraine? We can help each other here.”
“Sure,” Maurice said, “I am curious though. We haven’t posted a bounty or offered a reward yet. Why are you interested in Jacono’s death? Really?”
The Baron could answer this question easily, since the truth and the lie were almost exactly the same. “We came to the city looking for well-paid work, and that means sticking our nose into other people’s business whenever it might lead to a payout.” The Baron rested his hands on the back of the chair. “There’s a personal angle too.”
“Always the virtuous atheist,” the Zombie muttered.
“What’s that?” Maurice asked.
d’Holbach answered, “This is a murder. Someone has to make sure justice is served, and I’m honestly afraid that New York will satisfy itself with a sacrificial scapegoat, finding someone to kill instead of finding the actual killer.”
Maurice laughed. “That’s rather offensive.”
“I’m not saying you’re heartless,” the Baron replied warmly. “I’m saying New York’s cultic system is too big to truly care. It’ll want an ending to a story—not the actual story, understand?”
The Oracle shook his head. “I don’t know how you maintain your mix of cynicism and idealism.”
“I was there for the Napoleonic Wars, World War I, and World War II. I believe in absolute morality, Maurice, but even a humanist like myself has to admit that recognizing evil doesn’t resolve it, and there’s only so much good that can be done in a day.”
“All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do something?” Maurice smiled at his own joke and stood up behind his desk. “I’m going to my apartment to make the call. Someone should search the records tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with before you leave?”
“No, you’ve done more than enough.”
“One thing, before you go.” Maurice adjusted the straps on his suspenders. “I’m going to have to tell Meister Schuler about everything we learned here. He was asking about the boat task, and Jacono was working on it.”
“I have no objections,” the Baron said, flashing a well-rehearsed smile. No other reactions were acceptable at that instant. Worry would be the surest sign of guilt.
“Good. I don’t think Schuler will mind your attention on the case, but if he ever wants you out of the way, please step aside. The Diviner isn’t bound by any agreements.”
“Of course,” the Baron said agreeably. “Have a good evening.”
He left with the Zombie in tow. When they passed the butcher, the man raised his blade in mild salute. There was nothing left of Jacono’s body but a pile of carefully wrapped packages to be tossed into an industrial incinerator. They waved back, one set of hired hands to another, and left through the door.
Porter unlocked the stairwell to let them out. “Did you talk to the dead man?” he asked the Baron.
“That’s right. He was a made man,” the Baron replied.
Porter paused before leading them down. “Did he have any complaints about how we’re handling him?”
“Not one. He only told me what happened, then he moved on.”
“So he was at peace with our rites?”
The Baron doubted that Jacono cared about the treatment of his corpse, but as a gentleman, the Baron could answer Porter’s question. “I think the Temple has treated him well.”
The cultist seemed satisfied. “Thanks, Baron.”
“You’re welcome.”
They descended onto the stairwell, and Porter closed the top door behind them. They knocked at the bottom, and Osman opened their exit onto the bookstore.
“Already done?” the neophyte asked.
The Baron smiled. “We’ll have the information we need by tomorrow.”
The Zombie waved his magazine towards the young man. “Osman, quick question.”
“Yes, Zombie?”
“Would you try to steal the secret of immortality from the Empire of Women?”
Osman adjusted the collar of his shirt to try to cover the errant tufts of body hair that snuck out along the edges. “There’s an Empire of Women?”
The Zombie half-folded the magazine over, raised it over Osman’s head, and gently bopped him. Osman flinched like he’d been smashed with a tack hammer. The Zombie laughed loudly, and other people stopped to look at him. “Only in books!” he said to the impromptu audience. “There’s only an Empire of Women in the printed word.”
Osman didn’t seem to understand why that was funny.
The Baron didn’t have time to explain it. “Don’t think too hard about it. That stuff is practically pornography to him.”
“It’s wonderfully unreal,” the Zombie said.
“We may come by later Osman,” the Baron said. “Keep out of trouble.”
“Yes, Baron,” Osman said. “Have a good afternoon.”
Once they were out on the street and far from the bookstore, they stopped in the shade of a sycamore set into a sidewalk planter, and the Baron expressed the worried thought that’d been caught in his throat ever since the name “Schuler” had been spoken aloud. “I fucked up, friend.”
The Zombie raised a dark eyebrow. “How?”
“I forgot about the Diviner, and Maurice is about to give Tammany enough info to put Schuler on our trail. If he starts to get suspicious, we’re not equipped to stop him.”
“Maybe. I’ve tussled with Jackson Davis—”
“He wasn’t lucid, and he still knocked you through walls for a laugh. Meister Schuler is clear-headed—he’s practically sane! Starting tomorrow, we need to be fast and careful, otherwise we’ll be fighting a wizard in hostile territory, and we will be fucked.”
Author’s Note:
He forgot about the Diviner, and even the invincible man won’t repel that threat.
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