The Zombie raised his hands in mock surrender. “It’s your call, Baron. I’m the violence. You’re the conscience. Just don’t back down unless it’s necessary. I’m invincible.”
“I know. I know. Set aside Schuler for now.” The Baron glanced around; nobody was paying them much attention, but he stepped in closer and talked quieter. “I learned some things about the case in there, which you couldn’t hear. The man who killed Jacono wanted to find the Cat o’ Nine Lives.”
The Zombie patted the rolled up magazine in his palm like a club. “So this was helpful?”
“Very.”
“Did Jacono know anything about the Cat’s location then?”
“No. When the killer asked, that was the first time Jacono had heard about the Cat, but I think the killer expected Jacono to know. Now think—only a few people in New York know it’s here. Which of them would go around shooting folks, looking for the Cat?”
“Malik,” the Zombie replied. His face twisted up around the Bolshevik’s name like it had an unpleasant texture.
“Exactly! The killer was described as pale, and he didn’t speak directly to Jacono. He might’ve been hiding a Russian accent. Plus if Malik is in the field, he could’ve executed Jacono just to prevent anyone else from learning about the Cat’s arrival in New York.”
“That’d be stupid,” the Zombie judged. “Foreigners shouldn’t be shooting native cultists in the streets. That’s how wars start.”
“Yeah, well, what frightens me is that the man who killed Jacono was not smart. He shot Jacono without warning his subordinates. If that’s Malik, then he will bring hell down on all our heads sooner or later.”
“It means Denisov is basically powerless too.”
“Yes, and the Orthodox half of the cult too. They’re relying on us for a reason. Regardless, Jacono was a dead end, but if Nagy was on the ship, one of the other two survivors might know what happened to the Cat. They’ll be the next targets.”
“There are too many ifs here,” the Zombie said unhappily, “too much uncertainty.”
“I know. The killer might just be someone working for Malik, but I’m doubtful.” The Baron rubbed his eyebrows. “We just don’t know enough yet. We need to find those other survivors tomorrow morning.”
“Think there’s a faster way than asking New York?” the Zombie asked.
“No, but they won’t be rushing to help us either, so let’s plan to hit the streets, maybe see a few temples near the harbor. We have that Anastasia crew at least.”
“The Ozone Park Boys?” the Zombie recalled.
“Yes, they scuttled the ship. They might know our survivors. That’s the best we can do.”
“You really want to give Gagliano that time?”
“If we don’t give him that time, then he’s more than capable of taking all of ours. We’ll be cut off and encouraged to leave the city.”
“Even though I’m here?”
“We’ve stepped on his toes twice already as is, first by going to the Soviet mission before checking in at the Temple, and then a second time with the mafioso mix-up. All within a few hours, no less. If we rammed our heads through a third obstacle, we’d end up looking so dogged that New York might start asking more pointed questions and send Schuler down for a chat.” The Baron checked his watch. Nearly one in the afternoon. “I want to eat lunch and digest for a while. Let’s head back to the Biltmore, and pray we haven’t upset the locals so much that the Diviner is already pointed in our direction.” They needed to exploit New York’s resources for as long as possible without actually alerting them to the importance or exact nature of their work for Denisov, and if Meister Schuler suspected anything was afoot, he would fearlessly drive the Baron and Zombie off. He might be the one person in North America who could.
The Zombie rubbed his light beard. “Pray? You, the Atheist, praying?”
“Ha, ha, ha.” The Baron stepped off the curb and started searching for a red and yellow cab coming down 8th Street. There wasn’t a trace of humor in his voice. “Sometimes I hate language.”
“Heh. Either you’ll use the vernacular, or you’ll talk like an idiot. Your choice.” The Zombie grinned. “I once met a man trying to teach third century Christianity to the Romans. He kept trying to make up new words to describe his God.”
“How were they?”
“Terrible. Nobody listened because he refused to speak like a Roman.”
The Baron smiled. “You once told me you were in China in the 200s.”
The Zombie cast his friend an innocent, even questioning look. How could the Baron accuse him of such confusion and lies? “I don’t remember doing that.”
“You don’t remember the 3rd century either.”
The Biltmore was one of the three palatial Terminal hotels, each built to room and board the rich and famous passing through Grand Central on their journey up and down the eastern seaboard and into New England. It was accessible from the terminal itself, with its own arrival station and an elevator to the grand lobby. These were rarely used except by celebrities avoiding the public eye, but the decadence they represented was immense. A city as powerful and prosperous as New York submitted to constructing and maintaining a public train station for a private hotel. Thinking about it sometimes made the Baron’s brain hurt. Money could be more powerful than political will, especially in times of peace.
The exterior of the Biltmore was assembled in the plain and serviceable style of pre-WWI America, whose idea of a palace was stately arched windows and a decorative cornice on an otherwise boxy, almost featureless piece of grey stone architecture. The interior was livelier, richly decorated with wine-ruddy carpets, fine tiles, and dark, lustrous woods. The first floor was lined with small lounges instead of storefronts, a pre-Prohibition design. It rose as a unified structure almost six stories, a shell of cheap rooms surrounding a commercial core. There was the tremendous lobby—three stories tall—the broad Madison Room, the Men’s Bar, and a pair of the world’s only indoor pools. From the seventh story on up, it was divided into two towers, the north and south, which were connected at the back by a wall of especially expensive suites. Nestled between the towers was the Italian Garden, a rooftop park hosting an almost constant population of young, amorous couples. Perilously small iron balconies gave a commanding view over the trees and people, allowing wealthy guests to observe nature without participating in it.
The Baron had sent their luggage ahead that morning, to be delivered and deposited in their room on the 22nd floor. They were only now checking in.
d’Holbach stopped at the front desk with the Zombie standing behind him. The woman running reception was finely-dressed and very pretty, with her hair curled and pinned up with graceful efficiency. The Baron smiled at her, stood easily, and waited while she reviewed a list for his reservation; he exuded an air of well-practiced confidence, and while he wasn’t the tallest man, he knew his face was fine and his build was strong. He was handsome. He expected her to flirt, or to at least acknowledge his presence with a smile.
She didn’t. Instead, she kept looking beyond him with a slightly worried expression, slowing her search through the reservations. He glanced back—only the Zombie was there, reading his magazine idly. There were staff and residents all around the lobby, but no other customers were waiting in line with them.
Was she offended because of his Asian features? They’d witnessed a great deal of unjust resentment since the war, though the Zombie usually took it as an opportunity to intimidate someone back. She caught that he’d been looking at the Zombie; he smiled again, and her worried expression deepened to a frown.
“Is something wrong?” the Baron asked lightly.
“Do you know that man?” she asked.
“Oh, he’s my business partner. Name of Zed. He should be on the list.”
She swallowed. “Mr. Dufraine…”
“Call me Ray.” His cover name, Ray Dufraine, was the owner of the bank accounts and properties that funded his current activities since 1939.
“Mr. Ray, is your partner okay?”
The Baron blinked in confusion. “He’s fine.” The Zombie was always healthy.
“Is that a costume?”
“What?” The Baron glanced back at the Zombie again. He took stock—suit, pants, shoes, bowler was lost at the docks—oh, right. There were bullet holes on his chest, shoulder and stomach, and two flaps of jacket hung from one wrist. “Yes, a costume.” The Baron laughed softly, authentically entertained. “He plays the villain in an off-off-Broadway production about the Pacific Theater.” It was an easy riff on a believable cover story.
She seemed immediately relieved. “Is he Japanese?”
“No,” the Baron said. “But audiences never seem to know better.”
The Zombie looked up and grinned. “My accent is as American as anyone else’s.” It was in fact warmly gruff, an affectation he’d been cultivating ever since the advent of radio.
The woman couldn’t help but grin with him. “You said 2209?” She flipped through the pages and finally found their entry. “Here’s your key. Do you need someone to see you to your room?” Around the periphery of the lobby, bellhops were waiting in brightly colored uniforms.
“We’ll be fine on our own,” the Baron said. “Thank you…” He tilted his head.
“You’re welcome,” she said, either not picking up or ignoring the cue to offer her name. No surprise, since she was probably hit on by every man who passed the desk. Her resistance made the Baron feel better about the Biltmore. It meant that the clerk’s boss wasn’t coming down on her to be more flirtatious, or if he was, she wasn’t folding to his demands.
They took the elevator at the rear of the lobby, about as far away from the Biltmore’s famous clock as they could manage. Young couples were already gathering beneath its face, readying to dine out along Madison Avenue. The Baron understood why the hotel was a dating locus; it was large, easily accessible, had a public space that was rarely cleared, and had poorly enforced rules about affection. Even making out was tolerated during certain times of the day. It was still strange to see them there however. Few young adults could afford a room in the hotel since the Biltmore charged a minimum of six dollars a night and often much more.
Their room was in the back of the U-shaped connection between the north and south towers, with one of those thin balconies overlooking the garden. There was little on these back floors but empty, carpeted halls with windows facing the street on one side and costly rooms on the other. Services, maintenance and other sundry functions were housed in the towers themselves, and each tower was mostly self-contained, so foot traffic was low. Staying in the back suites gave them peace and quiet in an otherwise busy hotel, so it was doubly surprising then that their room door was wide open.
The Baron froze the moment he saw it. It was lucky that they hadn’t been talking. Nobody would know they were coming.
The Zombie noticed his pause and slowed, looking to him for direction. The Baron pointed and nodded towards the open door. The Zombie passed him the abused magazine, stepped in front of him, and walked towards their room in near silence.
“I heard your elevator open,” called out a young man, already inside with their bags.
The Zombie paused, furrowing his brow.
“I can guess you’re out there. Zombie, come in first. You’ll see I’m not armed.”
The Zombie turned to the Baron and mouthed—no windows. It meant that he should avoid uncovered windows and lines of sight to the outside.
Baron d’Holbach nodded.
The Zombie went to the open door and paused, looking over their guest. “No visible gun,” he called to the Baron. “Do you know the Pact?” he asked the person inside.
“I do,” said the young man. “Mutually assured destruction.”
The Zombie waved the Baron over. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Robert Heckhaus, Special Operations Group.”
The Baron reached the door. Heckhaus was seated in a chair by a low wooden table; the hotel room appeared untouched, though d’Holbach was sure that he’d have to pick this place over for the next few hours to find a bug—Langley operatives left them behind like droppings wherever they went.
The Special Operations Group was the paramilitary branch of the CIA, technically a secular organization, but its current incarnation encysted the Langley cult—the Order of the Cincinnati—which was the cultic inner circle of the Society of the Cincinnati. Whatever one called them, they were jingoistic and disproportionately influential. Even without much prestige, a Langley cultist represented a tremendous threat. A single SOG officer was by definition proven capable of completing an operation in hostile territory on sea, air, or ground with almost no support—and they generally could call in a great deal of support. In a government organization mostly full of imposters and money-maddened ideologues, these SOG cultists were maybe some of the only truly competent people, and only because occult conflict was constantly honing them against worthy foes.
Robert Heckhaus fit the type. He was tall, broad-jawed, and built like a world-class athlete, with short black hair cropped in a military style and a civvy suit pressed and creased so sharply that his shins could’ve been used as a straight edge. He had the intimidating presence of a heavyweight boxer without the punch-drunk dullness, and his eyes constantly shifted back and forth to gauge the reaction of both the Baron and the Zombie. His smile—while appearing authentic to a less experienced person—was eerily constant and emotionally empty. He was calculating and calm, and he knew exactly who he was dealing with.
The Baron realized that this man knew he might die and didn’t care.
“You’re a very dangerous man,” the Baron concluded.
Heckhaus didn’t reply. He was watching the Zombie.
So the Baron pressed on: “Why did you break into my room?”
Heckhaus chuckled. “The Zombie is thinking of killing me,” he said.
The Baron looked at the Zombie, who was standing very still. “He’s certainly unhappy, but he won’t kill you unless you threaten me.”
“Yes, and I’m threatening you,” Heckhaus replied.
The Zombie took one step forward and raised a hand.
“We’re being watched,” Heckhaus said quickly.
The Zombie stopped again. There were several windows on the far side of the room, and they could all sight one of the Biltmore’s two towers. “They can watch you die,” he offered.
Heckhaus stopped smiling. “They could, but consider this. Right now, you have a tactical advantage. Nobody has any reliable data about you. However, Langley is aware that while you are invincible, you can be temporarily disabled, and for the purposes of a wish, you aren’t a man. If you choose to kill me, I’ve been instructed to complete a series of carefully worded wishes as quickly as possible. We’d learn what could and couldn’t affect you, and for the price of one operative, Langley might learn to disarm the Baron’s nuclear threat.” Heckhaus leaned forward a little. “The data collected would be worth my life. So you can kill me now, or you can keep your advantage a little longer and settle down.”
The Zombie appraised Heckhaus with a stare. The SOG agent didn’t treat the Zombie like a berserker and was making an appeal to his reason as a fellow killer. It was a rare attitude.
“Let’s hear him out,” the Baron said. “You know what they say, don’t kill the messenger? We aren’t here to start a war with Langley.” This pulled the responsibility of sparing Heckhaus’s life out of the Zombie’s hands and into his own. The Zombie wouldn’t be compelled to kill the man in order to maintain a reputation. The Baron was reigning him in.
“Fine,” the Zombie said.
Heckhaus cracked his knuckles against his palm. “Excellent. Tell me, Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach. What year is this?”
“1952,” the Baron said.
“Exactly one hundred and one years since the Fall of Truth. They used to say that when we lost the ability to wish for knowledge, the era of occult espionage was over. They were only half right. Nobody can use prestige to fill in the gaps in intelligence, but they can still use prestige to improve the spy. Do you follow me?”
“I hate canned speeches,” the Baron said.
“I’ll skip to the end then. The Order of the Cincinnati understands that prestige can still decide the fate of nations, and this is the Cold War! At any given moment, we are one gunshot away from a nuclear exchange—the end of civilization.” Heckhaus snapped his fingers. “Like that. So when we get intel saying that you’ve come to New York, we have to wonder—what’s this occult mover and shaker doing out of his box in Boston? What effect will he have on the world stage?” He blew out his breath. “It was a tremendous disappointment to all of us when you were seen entering the Soviet Mission for a meeting with the Reds.”
“Were you watching the Russians or tailing us?”
Heckhaus pretended that he hadn’t heard the question. “Once I heard the news, I decided to handle this myself. You’re lucky I was here. I should’ve been in South America yesterday, but I was pulled to plant a bomb on a plane—did you hear about that task?”
“A domestic terrorist breaks into our hotel room,” the Zombie muttered, “wonderful luck.”
“I’m more flexible than most operatives. I know you’re a principled man, Baron. You don’t act without a higher reason, so here I am, a devil’s advocate asking the Devil—why the Reds?”
The Baron considered his answer for a moment. Lying to Langley was a quick way to turn the secular world against you. The effects ranged widely. Some were merely irritating, like mistakes with the utility companies. Some were financially crippling, like an IRS audit. The worst were the frame jobs, where documents were produced implicating the victim as a socialist sympathizer with connections to the Communist Party and foreign intelligence agencies.
The CIA could easily destroy a man without harming a hair on his head.
“I can’t tell you everything,” d’Holbach said flatly.
Heckhaus shrugged and smiled again. He knew that he was getting his way, and he genuinely liked that. “Tell me everything you can.”
“We’re working against Bolshevik cultic interests. If I complete this job successfully, the Soviet cult will be paralyzed by internal conflict. We’ll maintain the status quo.”
Heckhaus weaved his fingers together and waited. When the Baron didn’t elaborate further, he asked, “Is that all you can say?”
“I have a reputation to consider. I’ll keep my secrets.”
Heckhaus stared at the Baron. He stared back. Seconds passed in silence. The Zombie looked at each of them but said nothing. The Baron wanted to react to Heckhaus’s complaints. Heckhaus was probably trying to wait him out. So many people talked just to fill the silence, and that instinct was a powerful interrogation tool.
The Zombie carefully plucked the magazine from the Baron’s idle hand, loudly flipped through the pages and started reading.
Heckhaus must’ve realized that the Baron wasn’t going to crack because of a little quiet. “What if the status quo isn’t good enough? What if the status quo is that we’re losing this war?”
“The status quo is that we’re still worrying about doomsday, and that’s better than picking through the rubble and wondering where all the people went.” The Baron moved from his place at the door, marching forward into his own room. This brought him closer to the windows, but at this point he was confident that Heckhaus wasn’t here to order a hit. Their luggage stood in a pile of trunks and suitcases in the middle of the suite’s “living room.” On top of the whole bunch was a steel-reinforced briefcase which he knew was full of books.
“Zombie!” he called, readying to throw the heavy case.
The Zombie threw down his magazine just in time to catch the briefcase with a loud thud—two invincible hands, beating on steel-reinforced canvas. The weight of it was instantly obvious. Once the briefcase was in hand, he hefted it and grinned. “I can beat people without killing them,” he told Heckhaus. “Not that I’m threatening anything.”
“Of course not,” Heckhaus said.
“Is there anything else you want to tell us?” asked the Baron.
The threat was clear. The Zombie would start cracking skulls if he overstayed his welcome. “Only one thing,” said Heckhaus. “It’s the official position of the Langley cult, the Special Operations Group, the CIA, the State Department, and President Truman himself that cooperation with Communist forces is tantamount to treason against the people of the United States. What you’ve done so far would be grounds for a full investigation, and it’s only under my authority that you’ve remained free to operate after leaving the Soviet Mission.” He stood, rising above the Baron and the Zombie both—maybe six and a half feet tall. “However, I believe that no principle is more important than the ends achieved. If your work will aid American interests, we’ll stand aside, but we won’t turn a blind eye. We will be watching.”
“As will I!” the Zombie called cheerily.
Robert Heckhaus nodded at his enemy, then went for the open door.
“We never needed your permission,” the Baron said as he passed.
Heckhaus paused in the jamb. “I’ve decided that you’re not our enemy today. That’s better than permission. That’s peace. Good evening, Baron d’Holbach.”
Author’s Note:
We meet one of our antagonists, a murderous patriot with a very fun name!
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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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.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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