Shadows in a Dark City

by Kirk Dougal

  “So, what do I do?”

  Blink opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For the first time, the excitement left his eyes, and he sat down in the chair across from me. The silence stretched out between us, and I reached back for two more beers. I checked the stock and decided I might need to send Felisa out for more brews and some Scooby snacks if we didn't wrap up this mystery soon.

  Suddenly, Blink sat up straight in his chair and snapped his fingers.

  “Who'd you stick it to the worst?” he asked. “Who'd you really screw over big time when you were alive?”

  Despite a long list of possibilities, I didn't need to think about the question for long.

  “Jayson.”

  Blink nodded again.

  “Then that's who you need to make it up to. Do right by him, and you can wipe the slate clean.”

  *****

  It had taken a couple of days to find out where Jayson was working. After the way things had almost ended between us, I had kept my distance from everybody who knew me my first time around.

  But now I was back in the old neighborhood.

  I kept my head lowered as my feet walked down streets I didn't need to look at to travel. Almost two years since Jayson sent me on this hell ride, and I was beginning to think that nothing around here had really changed. Sure, there were a couple of different stores, a new apartment building that promised more style than it delivered, and a handful of deserted structures in various stages between free market drug stands and collapsing. But I also smelled the same old kimchi and barbecue from the familiar Korean taco truck long before I heard the owner calling out the day's specials. I listened to the locals' strange mix of Spanish and Japanese, with a little accented English thrown in, most of it swearing. The sun's heat clung to my skin, cooling a little when it was chased by a breeze with a hint of ocean tang.

  Son of bitch, I didn't realize how much I'd missed my old stomping grounds.

  Too bad I came home to die.

  Between Blink asking a few questions and my memory of how the old operation worked, we found out Jayson was running a crew for the same organization we'd both been in the first time I was alive. He held court out of a sports bar where we used to get bombed after the day's receipts were counted and locked away. He'd done pretty well for himself, shooting all the way up to middle management, so to speak, with a half-dozen hammers reporting to him now.

  But Blink had also found out there was trouble brewing for my old partner. Jayson was being pushed by the next gang over, and things had been rough for a few months. His pack was bigger, but they were still a little green except for one old guy that had been around long enough to be an old guy when Jayson and I were starting out. They'd been hurt in the first few moves, losing a street and its revenue. In fact, the word on the street was Jayson had needed to be more hands on and take care of some of the poachers himself to grab back what had been taken from him.

  The other side had taken notice.

  I never glanced up as I walked past the bar. On the other side of the street was an alley that led a twisting path between buildings to an opening on the next block. I knew I could stay in the shadows of that man-made labyrinth and watch the front door and part of the side, but I damn sure didn't want anybody to notice me going in there.

  I shrugged the light jacket farther down on my shoulders. The sun was beating down hot enough to make sweat seep down the middle of my back, while the collar kept riding up the back of my damp neck. But I'd needed something to cover the butts of the two Glocks tucked into my waistband. Even so, I wondered if I should have just gone ahead and carried them in the open. Chances were good that in this neighborhood, no one would have noticed.

  Sunlight peeked down the streets, but it was a distant memory in the alley as I turned in and made my way back toward the bar. The smell of stale piss and garbage mixed together and curled around me as I moved. That didn't bother me nearly as much as the sounds of scurrying little feet. Dump me in a vat of blood, blow brains all over my face, or let me smell a three-week old corpse that had been sitting in the trunk of a car in L.A. in August, and I was fine. Let a rat run across my foot, and I'd scream like your little sister.

  Yeah, I know.

  I'd just turned the last corner and was looking down the dark passage at the light at the far end when a shadow moved on my right. I didn't bother reaching for a gun, instead, lashing out with my foot and connecting with the middle of the dark form. The man doubled over and groaned, the rush of air from his lungs followed by a smoker's hack. He crumbled to his knees and then rolled over, rubbing his back in the filth of the alley.

  “No more,” he wheezed. “I got nothin' to take.” Coughs wracked his body while he held up a shaking hand in front of his face to ward off the next kick.

  Shit. Beating the crap out of a homeless guy was no way to clean my slate.

  “My bad, old man,” I mumbled before reaching into my pocket and thumbing out a couple of Jacksons. “Go get yourself something to eat.” I dropped the forty dollars on his chest and walked away.

  I took up station just inside the entrance to the alley, the shadows dark enough to hide me in their grasp. From here, I could see the front door of the bar and the delivery entrance on the side. I also remembered a back door that opened on a narrow alley, one even smaller and darker than the one where I now stood. But even a revenant couldn't be everywhere at once. I figured these two doors were where most of the action took place.

  A man stumbled by the opening, and I leaned farther back into the shadows. Even from ten feet away, the stench of his clothes drifted into my hiding spot and made me turn my head. The smell, the dirty clothes, the scraggly beard, and the million-mile stare—he looked like any of a thousand burned out users that called the city home. But he had something in his hands that not too many others did: two twenty-dollar bills.

  I shook my head at my own stupidity. This doing good shit just so I could die was turning my brain to cheese. I would've never made the mistake of giving money to an old meth head before I died. Guess I knew how that money was going to be spent.

  I settled in for the wait and lit a cigar. I didn't like the fact the cherry glow might give me away if someone glanced into the alley at the right time but, damn, I had to do something to keep the stink from swimming down my nose and throat.

  The seconds turned into minutes and then into an hour. In the old days, I would've had Jayson in the alley with me, bullshitting back and forth to pass the time. Rams or Raiders, Dodgers or A's, we'd talk about sports or jobs or whoever we were banging at the time. I missed talking to the bastard and was sorry I made him kill me.

  I shook my head at the thought. That was the secret Blink had not figured out yet. After Jayson emptied his clip into me, I lay on his bedroom floor, still naked and bleeding all over his new carpet. As he reloaded, I waved him close.

  “I'm sorry,” I had told him. “My bad.”

  Those four little words were what led to all the shit I'd put up with since then. Waking up again in the hospital morgue with J. Doe written on a toe tag had been my first clue everything had gone sideways. Then more of my memories had returned, both of living and dying, as I tried to figure out what had happened to me. Eventually, with Blink's help, I learned the rules to this new game, but my personal hell had all been because of that apology. I was never going to climb any stairway to heaven, sorry Led Zeppelin, but when the hot house down below turned me away because I told Jayson I was sorry and meant it, I was screwed.

  Enough time passed that I was sorry I hadn't made a stop at the wagon for some tacos or wings. Shit, I'd even go for some sriracha salsa and chips. What did I care about a little heartburn? But I'd need to leave my spot to get it now, and then I'd want a beer or six to wash it all down.

  I was here to do a job, so I stayed put.

  The front of the bar had plenty of business going in and out, but I kept my attention on the empty lot alongside the building. The darker the night became, the more traffic
I watched. Cars slowed on the street and pulled into the spot out front that remained empty most of the time. The driver usually stayed behind the wheel while one and sometimes two guys hopped out and went to the side door. They would only disappear inside for a few minutes, and then they'd be back out, jump into the car again, and speed away.

  I'd spent too much time in the business not to recognize pay day when I saw it. Women, gamblers, chuggers, loopers, pharmers, and even little old-fashioned dippers—everything was either run by the local organization, or the owners paid a franchise fee to operate in the neighborhood. Today was the day they all dropped off this week's receipts.

  Well, all except the drugs. All the smart organizations kept that part of the business separate, away from all the others. First, the heat could get turned up pretty high by the cops on drugs, at least the ones not on the take, and you didn't want to put the other businesses in play. But just as important, a lot of the people you had to deal with on that side of the coin weren't always all there, or just a few fries short of a Happy Meal as Jayson used to joke. It was better all the way around to keep them where they could do less damage to the whole operation.

  I watched a car pull away, and I patted my pocket for another cigar. I still had a stub left in my mouth, but I'd been chewing on it for almost an hour to keep my stomach from growling loud enough to be heard across the street, and there was no way it would be worth lighting now. I stopped searching long enough to watch a black H3 pull up, but then went back to digging into my pockets for something, anything, to chew on.

  A cough drop. I found a damn cough drop way down in the bottom of my jacket pocket. The wrapper was gone, and it had enough lint sticking to it to make me wonder if it had grown a fur coat, but I still stared at it sitting on my palm for a ten count before I let it fall to the ground. I was desperate, but not quite that bad yet.

  That cough drop was why I missed the beginning.

  The first pop made me lean my head to the side. The next ten came so fast and so close together they could only be gunfire.

  I was only part of the way across the street when the first woman barreled out the front door of the bar, screaming loud enough to echo off the surrounding buildings. The noise stopped when the guy who followed her out ran her over, bouncing her off the sidewalk with the sound of a half-flat basketball.

  But I was still concentrating on the side of the bar. I swung around the back end of the Hummer, a Glock in each hand as I moved. It was only then I realized the truck was still running, and no one was sitting inside. I really had gone stupid when Jayson killed me.

  The first guy who walked out the side door—technically he backed out, firing through the doorway fast enough to let me know he wasn't really aiming—I dropped before he turned toward me.

  Movement in the shadows at the back of the building caught my eye in time to make me jump to the left. Bullets whistled by me and bit into the H3, striking metal and shattering glass. I jerked on the triggers and sent showers of concrete block spraying into the air. I wasn't sure I'd hit anything that wasn't painted gray, but no one peeked around the corner again, so I turned my attention back to the door.

  Guns roared through the opening, and two men stumbled out into the night, shuddering with each blast. One fell over the man I'd shot, but the other weaved his way out a few more steps before he went down.

  And then he was standing there.

  Jayson lurched through the doorway, his white shirt splotched with red over a belly that had grown considerably in the two years since the last time we saw each other in his bedroom.

  He saw me at about the same time I noticed movement again at the back of the building. Jayson was yelling something, but I was too busy staring at the shotgun aimed at his back to listen. I brought up both guns and started firing.

  I'd like to blame Jayson, but not even drunk and pissed off could I find a way to make that accusation stick. He'd already been hit and now all he saw was a guy he thought he'd killed once, emptying magazines in his direction. He did what anybody would've done in the same situation.

  He started blasting away at me.

  Jayson hit me low on the right side, turning my body even as I aimed past him into the dark. But the shadows didn't stay dark for long. The shotgun fired, lighting up the back corner of the building. I sent a half-dozen shots toward the flash before I fell to one knee. At least I had the satisfaction of hearing someone scream, and the gun clatter on the ground.

  But I was too damn late.

  Jayson was twitching on the concrete, his face a mixture of pain and disbelief at seeing me. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a wet cough and a lot of blood. His eyes rolled back, and it was all over.

  Police sirens wailed in the distance, but they were definitely moving closer. I pushed myself to my feet off the Hummer's door and stumbled down the sidewalk, finally getting up to what would pass for a half-assed jog by the next intersection. Three blocks later, I turned down a side street and ducked into the protected opening of an old apartment building. Red and blue lights danced across the brick and gray wood, and I leaned back into the darkness until two cop cars roared past.

  They went left, so I headed right. I had only gone a few steps, however, when I jerked to a stop. Leaning up against the next doorway, just on the edge of the streetlamp’s reach, was the old man I had given the money to in the alley.

  He was dead. The needle in his arm and the smile on his face telling me all I needed to know about what happened to him.

  I shuffled away.

  I had started the night trying to help an old friend and myself at the same time. I couldn't stop Jayson from dying, and the money I'd given the old man managed to kill him, too.

  Worst of all, my shoulder felt fine, and the fresh bullet hole in my side didn't hurt much at all. If Blink was here, he'd tell me that wasn't a good sign.

  I remember the first time I died. Maybe someday, I'll get to stay dead.

  Help Wanted

  I sprinted between the tombstones, poking an eight-foot pole at the figure in front of me. The whole time I kept thinking about Mr. Everson, my high school guidance counselor.

  *****

  The World War II-era Quonset hut had more rust than paint on its arched metal roof and sides, just a few splotches of faded gray paint remaining to tell of better days. The sign above the door, however, Landry Research – The Problem Solvers, appeared to be fairly new. I glanced down again to read the newspaper folded over in my hands.

  Needed: Someone willing to get their hands

  dirty. Must think on their feet, strong stomach.

  Flexible hours. Still believes in Santa Claus,

  Swamp Ape, and Bogeyman. Apply in person

  at Landry Research.

  The address was below the listing.

  Mom had circled the ad in red ink, several times, and left it on my bed. She was never one for subtlety, but this time I couldn't blame her. Almost two years after receiving my degree, the steadiest work I'd found was delivering pizzas, and I was still living in the bedroom in her basement.

  An old-fashioned hanging bell rang when I opened the door and stepped inside, the frame scraping under the little metal ball and announcing me. Two rows of work lights hung from the ceiling, but only about every third ballast was lit, leaving much of the interior in shadow.

  “Whaddya want?”

  I peered through the gloom over the bed of a dented pickup truck and noticed a man standing in an office doorway, backlit so only his outline was visible.

  “I'm here about the job.”

  He snorted before tilting his head.

  “Come on then.”

  The man waited until I was close before he turned and walked back inside the office, giving me the chance to see the revolver he slipped into a desk drawer. That wasn't nearly as surprising as the machete he laid across the corner of the battered top, the handle within easy reach.

  “Go ahead and take a load off, son.” He sat down on what appear
ed to be the only new item in the office, an expensive leather desk chair with adjustable lumbar supports. On the other hand, the chair he waved me towards had more duct tape on the seat than the original covering.

  “I brought a resume and a list of references, Mr. Landry,” I said and held them out.

  “Name's not Landry. It's Lammond Jackson Arceneaux, but you northerners have trouble saying that mouthful. Pauvre maman called me Jack, and the name stuck. You can call me that, too.” He reached across the desk and took the papers from my hand.

  I watched him while he read. Jack wasn't a tall man, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in width. He had a barrel chest that expanded out to a stomach that spilled over his belt. His skin was leathered from the sun except for a thin, white scar that curled like a hook around his left eye before trailing down to a three-day beard, and the fingers on his right hand had thick joints that had been broken more than once.

  “Aw, Christ on a cracker. You a college boy.”

  Jack spoke with an accent I had trouble understanding, and I had no idea who or what a pauvre maman was, but I knew what he said about college wasn't good.

  “Is that a problem?”

  He frowned.

  “The last college boy made it two days. Didn't even ride back with us from the job. He just took off runnin' down the road and never came back.” Jack glanced me up and down like a piece of meat at the market. “You ever do any real work, son?”

  I knew what he meant.

  “Yes, sir. I worked on a loading dock for two summers and was also a brick hauler for a mason.”

  He pursed his lips.

  “Play any sports?”

  “I was a starting defender on our high school lacrosse team,” I said with a nod.

  “Lacrosse? You mean that funny little game where dey run around and beat the hell out of each other with sticks? That look like fun, it do.” He laid my resume on his desk. “Tell you what. We'll let Chot make the final decision. Chot!”