Blood Standard_An Isaiah Coleridge Novel

by Laird Barron

  He walked in alone, which impressed me a tiny bit. Alexander the Great would’ve done it that way.

  “I thought you said a nigger was wrecking the joint,” he said to the bartender. “This dude’s an islander. You’re an islander, right?”

  “Meh,” I waffled with my hand. “Does it really make a difference to you what flavor of subhuman I am?”

  “Maybe I’m confused. You were asked to leave this establishment.”

  “In no uncertain terms. Hi, my name is West. This is my buddy, Leroy. You must be the Führer.”

  “Name’s Joe Horsley. Go by Horse. Those dudes hanging around the van belong to the Hudson Valley Chapter of the Sons of the Iron Knife. I’m the president.”

  “Hello, Mr. President,” I said.

  Lionel cleared his throat and stared out the window. He hummed “Take the Skinheads Bowling.”

  Horsley said, “You realize me and my crew are gonna have to put a whoopin’ on you if you don’t get your asses gone. Them’s the rules.”

  “I can’t leave,” I said and held up two fingers. “Two reasons why not.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Reason one: I have to know why, if it’s true that you hate black folks so much, one of your brethren is cavorting with an African-American girl?” I slid Reba’s photo across the table.

  He flicked a glance at the photo and his jaw tightened.

  “Yeah, I seen her with him. Reba somethin’. Ain’t no club law against keeping a piece on the side.”

  “Well, that’s very enlightened of you.”

  “Reason two?”

  I leaned back in my chair so the wood creaked under my weight. My jacket shifted and he got a gander at the .357.

  “I’ve done many dark deeds in my misbegotten life, but until today I’ve never beaten to death the president of a white supremacist gang. As you might guess from my swarthy complexion and unsightly scarring, it has been near the top of my to-do list.”

  “Hold the phone, guys,” Horsley said.

  I affected surprise.

  “Don’t tell me you want to duck a fight?”

  “Uh, let’s table this for another day.”

  “This is a confounding development. Are you confounded, Lionel?”

  “A wee bit,” Lionel said.

  “Bob, step outside,” Horsley said. “Give the crew a couple of pints on me.” He waited until Bob the bartender had gone. He leaned forward with an earnest expression and said, “Look, man, this is peacock shit. The boys are tough, but I don’t want to pit them against heavy hitters unless there’s a damned good reason. Are you with the Manitou?”

  Lionel laughed.

  “We’re not,” I said.

  Horsley sighed.

  “Okay. Didn’t think so. We can talk, then. All peaceful and shit.”

  “Makes me nervous, a Hitler-loving ex-con like yourself starts preaching peace.”

  “Not peace, common sense. I figured you were serious when I got the call from Bob. Nobody stupid enough to barge in here unless they’re connected. I did a nickel in Sing Sing, I’ve seen your type before. Seen scars like you got. Always on a certain type of character. You’re raw as fuck. What do you want? Maybe we got something in common.”

  “Which is?”

  “Hank’s worthless carcass swinging from a telephone pole.”

  “You really hate defectors that much?”

  “Bet your ass we do. Hank crossed a few lines.”

  Self-described neo-Nazi groups are a dime a dozen. My inspection of the place had clued me in to the fact this particular group was a wannabe faction of the Aryan Brotherhood—and one glance at the scowling, but eminently callow, goons who’d arrived on the doorstep confirmed that assessment.

  “What made you think these Manitou friends of yours would send somebody over?”

  “Ask me no questions about club business, I’ll tell you no lies.”

  I decided to let Horsley off the hook.

  “Fine, we’ll keep it simple. Where’s Hank?”

  “Lot of us would like to know. I haven’t seen him since he split Kingston months ago. Probably in the projects with his new homies. Newburgh, Southside.” He spat on the floor and crossed his arms. I believed him. There wasn’t any faking that kind of disgust.

  “He got a better offer?”

  “Went with the Manitou. Token white bitch.”

  “Ouch.” Lionel gave me a I’ll-fill-you-in-later eyebrow waggle.

  Often, the better part of valor is pretending that you know more than you actually do.

  “Hey, I got one of those. Don’t knock it.” I patted Lionel’s arm. “Gracious, Mr. Ed. Go ahead and scream at us some. We’ll skulk on out of here to help you save face.”

  “Thank God,” Horsley said. “I had bridgework done last month. Hate to wreck it.”

  Lionel held the door for me on the way to the car. We received some dirty looks, but Horsley kept the troops in line.

  “That dude is full of shit like a Christmas goose.” Lionel started the car.

  “Politician is a politician.”

  “Can we go look at strippers now?”

  “Okay, son. Let’s go see the strippers.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Lionel and I canvassed the hot spots on Kari Jefferson’s list of Reba’s haunts.

  The Electric Peach and Tom Thumb were at low ebb. I worked the bouncers, two of whom were Samoans and who saw in me a sympathetic soul. Clubs love Samoans because they are so big and scary-looking that they don’t have to actually smack around too many rowdy assholes. Always better for business if one can keep the yahoos in line with intimidation rather than actual beatings. That was why I couldn’t handle security jobs—I’m big, but not enormous, and there are too few opportunities for real violence.

  Word had already gotten around from Deluca’s crew concerning what I’d done to Charles. The Samoans made me vow to keep them in mind if I happened to ever need a couple of ballbusters. I said I would and segued right into my mission.

  Plenty of staff recognized Reba by name. She had a reputation as a sweet girl with iffy friends. Alas, none had seen her on the afternoon of her disappearance. As for the Three Amigos, nobody wanted to talk about them at all. After the sixth or seventh bruiser I questioned made like a clam at the mention of Hank and company, I packed it in. Their stonewalling was confirmation enough.

  The manager at Tom Thumb expressed displeasure with the lack of police involvement. He offered to let me scan security footage, but the feed only clocked seventy-two hours. I thanked him and politely declined a hefty offer to join the team on Saturday nights.

  Nine o’clock rolled around. We dropped by the Spitfire on Broadway to meet Lionel’s buddy, Calvin Knox.

  Red and blue tracers flashed out of a neon biplane with a lace bra dangling from the wing. The doorman wore thick shades and barely acknowledged us as he collected the cover charge. Inside was clean, for a strip club. At least I didn’t step on any broken glass or trip over a body. Two mostly nude women were performing a desultory bump-and-grind in tandem to a techno beat. Haze, thick with more red and blue light, lent the hall an underwater aspect. Seven or eight customers gathered near the stage. A few others occupied surrounding tables. None of them were interested in Lionel or me.

  Calvin Knox waved us over to his spot along the back wall below a mural of the Red Baron’s plane spiraling to its doom. Slim, black, mid-forties, with a prodigious Afro and a gold chain around his neck. He wore a high-collar silver shirt open to his navel, white slacks, and sharkskin cowboy boots. I figured the getup had to be a put-on.

  Lionel made the introductions. He explained that Calvin earned his bread as a professional photographer and an ace surveillance specialist. He’d done a stint with the Associated Press as a war correspondent embedded with infantry units in Afghanistan. La
tely, he freelanced the local scene.

  Most of his photos went straight to New York, although he’d accepted gigs from private investigators and law firms. Lionel first met Calvin by chance at the infamous Golden Eel. They’d tipped a few brews, traded war stories, and become fast friends. Neither man held the law or rules of polite society in high regard.

  A girl in platform shoes and an uncomfortably tight miniskirt took the order—vodka for the boys, cranberry juice for me. Dialing it back for the rest of the evening felt like the mature choice.

  I knocked glasses with my associates. We traded the usual pleasantries, sniffing around one another as strange dogs will, until I waded into a moment of silence with the evening’s agenda.

  “Calvin, why did you summon us to this particular dive?”

  “Patience, friend.” Calvin nodded serenely. “Give me ten minutes and all will become apparent.”

  “If you say so.” My feet hurt. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed. I also wanted to call Meg, much to my chagrin. The impulse had snuck up on me. I hate being snuck up on.

  “Come on, man. Can’t complain about the scenery.” He cast a glance at the waitress as she tottered away.

  “This place would be way cooler if they tricked it out like a World War I officer’s club,” I said. “Fellas in uniforms and pencil mustaches. Chicks with ivory cigarette holders and those gloves that go to the forearm. Dancers would dress in flapper costumes. That’d be classy. As it is, the motif doesn’t make much sense.”

  Lionel downed his vodka and immediately signaled for another.

  “Used to be a grill. Ribs were fucking amazing. A-ma-zing.”

  “Billy Bacon’s,” Calvin said. “Yes, indeed, William Chesterfield served the best ribs this side of the Tappan Zee Bridge. Bacon wasn’t shabby either. He was a history buff, especially grooved on the biographies of the famous dogfighters. Commissioned this fine art.” He kept his long hands clasped behind his neck. The man radiated ease, even as his eyes continuously surveyed his surroundings with calculation born of a life spent dodging mortar shells. “In ’96 or ’97, Big Bill got crosswise with the Coyotes over liquor distribution and they snuffed him. He should’ve stuck to the ribs. I’m not kidding. They were magical.”

  I’d heard of the Coyotes. A bad-to-the-bone motorcycle gang, if there ever was one.

  “Then it got resurrected as the Spitfire?”

  “Some punk with an MBA out of Harvard tried. Got his ass handed to him and went crawling back to Boston. Nobody cried over that debacle. The worm wanted to repurpose it as a sports bar. Five years ago, a small-time real estate swindler made a move on it. Took a page from the mob’s playbook. Changed the name and brought in strippers and the occasional B-list comedian. Got connected with the most powerful gang in the neighborhood. His name’s still on the lease, but the White Manitou hold the marker. The Spitfire fronts nasty, nasty business.”

  “Drawing a blank on the Manitou,” I said. “The president of the Sons of the Iron mentioned that name . . .”

  Lionel swallowed his second vodka. His eyes were red.

  “It’s bad news, pal.”

  “Northeastern Native American tribal gang,” Calvin said. “Buffalo, Toronto, New York, and down into Philly and Baltimore. Algonquian and Seneca run the show. That’s the core, at any rate. Reality is more complicated. They’re co-opting poor kids, don’t matter what ethnicity. Iroquois, Mohawk, blacks, Hungarians, Latinos, an Italian and an Irishman here and there.”

  “A rainbow coalition of evil,” Lionel said.

  I got the picture.

  “Green is their favorite color of all, of course.”

  “Green is everybody’s favorite color,” Calvin said. “Been around since the 1960s, they’ve blown up over the past few years. Casinos, tribal police, county clerks, politicians, all kinds of business under their thumb, all kinds of people in their pocket. What the Manitou don’t control, they influence. Major influence, son. What they can’t influence, they have a tendency to destroy.”

  “Who’s in charge locally?”

  “Locally, as in Kingston? No idea. Regionally, I’m pretty sure a suit in the Apple calls the shots. Larry Modine. Hot-shit businessman. Gives to the right charities, active member of a native heritage commission, friend of the police department.”

  “Pillar of the community,” I said.

  “It’s a front—journalists have investigated his ties to the seamy underbelly. Numerous Manitou bangers have worked on and off the books in his legitimate corporate enterprises.”

  I scribbled these pearls on a napkin.

  “Cal, whether or not this will prove useful remains to be seen. It is immensely informative. Anything else for Papa?”

  “Keep in mind, I’m getting this thirdhand from junkies and hookers.”

  “Man, the day you can’t rely on junkies and hookers.”

  “Whispers have it, there’s turmoil among the leadership. Turmoil usually means a thinning of the herd. Be a raftload of corpses floating down the Hudson any day now.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “They can’t go on expanding without crossing the mob. Heads are gonna roll.”

  “Exactly. Gangland shootings are up this past year. DEA might be turning the screws. Feds stir the pot, all hell could break loose.”

  “Hank Stephens went over to the Manitou,” Lionel said. “This is fucked.”

  Calvin frowned.

  “That girl of yours couldn’t have picked a worse crowd if Satan hisownself was running a dating service. Human trafficking is among their favorite vices. These dudes like them young and pretty. She’s lucky if she doesn’t wind up pulling a train in a crack house. Or worse. The thing you need to keep in mind is that these dudes are dangerous. Skull and crossbones on the label, bad medicine. They take trophies. Skins, skulls, and scalps. Spooks the living shit out of the Italians and all the other gangs. It’s primeval.”

  I thumped the table with my glass.

  “That isn’t primeval. This isn’t native tradition. The Jesuits brought that garbage across the shining sea. The English taught the natives plenty about skinning and trophy taking. These silly bastards are perpetuating a terrorist myth.”

  “Dude, easy. I only report the news,” Calvin said.

  Wheels turned in my mind. Here was Bellow’s hinted warning made explicit. The Feds were after big fish, all right: the White Manitou. Thanks to the Three Amigos, Reba had gotten tangled in the whole mess.

  Calvin produced an envelope. Photos revealed Kari Jefferson tooling around in a red convertible and lounging poolside. Her dad’s lovely home, I presumed. The last three were pics of Kari peeking into shopwindows. Tailing her, Agent Timothy Noonan cast furtive glances over his shoulder as he did his best to appear inconspicuous. I recognized the Broadway Theatre marquee in the distance.

  “Took that last one earlier this afternoon. Dunno who the white cat is. A cop. I mean, lookit those shoes. Cop shoes.”

  “He’s a cop all day long.” I paid Calvin his fee, which he counted with evident satisfaction.

  “What’s it mean?” Lionel said in a thick voice.

  “‘We shall see,’ said the blind man.”

  “Something else might be of interest.” Calvin slid over an empty pill bottle. OxyContin prescribed to Reba Walker from Dr. Peyton dated three weeks prior. “Found a whole pile of these stashed in the dumpster behind the girls’ apartment. Uppers, downers. Painkillers. Antiseizure meds. I think visits by you and Five-O put the heat on little miss Kari Jefferson and she cleaned house.”

  “Explains what the Three Amigos wanted from her and Reba,” I said.

  Lionel eyed a close-up of Kari.

  “Is it a stretch to think this chick is good for making Reba vanish?”

  “She doesn’t feel right for this. She’s a dilettante in over her head.”

  The wait
ress brought Lionel another vodka as the song ended and the DJ thanked the dancer and genially cajoled the men at the stage to loosen their wallets.

  I watched Lionel slam his booze.

  “My friend, I think you may have yourself a small drinking problem.”

  “We all got addictions, brother,” Calvin said.

  “Hi, I’m Lionel and I’m an alcoholic, it’s true.” Lionel swished his empty glass.

  Calvin laughed.

  “And I’m addicted to what brought low Don Juan, Cyrano de Bergerac, and that hombre in the Marty Robbins song ‘El Paso’—which is to say, romantic love.”

  “Which is to say, pussy,” Lionel said.

  “What about you, Coleridge? You a slave to whiskey? Blow? Poontang?”

  “Ain’t none of that shit controls my good buddy.” Lionel’s eyes were fiery. “No sir. He’s got an entirely different monkey on his back.”

  “How about we leave off with talk of monkeys,” I said.

  We sipped our drinks.

  “You’re wondering why I brought you to Kingston’s finest strip show,” Calvin said and gazed at the stage. “Here comes the reason, in all her nubile glory.”

  “Gentlemen, give it up for the Ice Czarina, Anastasia!” the DJ said and Hall & Oates began to sing “Private Eyes.”

  I had an instant to consider the notion that there should be a moratorium on exotic dancers and porn stars commandeering the names of dead Russian princesses. Then, adorned in shades, crimson pasties, a white bikini bottom, and perilously high heels, onto the stage strutted Kari Jefferson.

  “Well played, Cal,” I said.

  Lionel pulled a wad of dollar bills from his wallet.

  “Oorah!”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The waitress took my request and a ten-spot to send Kari over after she finished her set. Kari put on a blouse and a wrap and slipped off her high heels. She beamed a 120-watt smile and waggled her fingers in that wave girls do.