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!
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!
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!
