by Laird Barron
“A Stevens man?” I said. “A tip of the hat to you. Here, I thought you were a bunch of illiterates.”
“Wanda likes Stevens. I like ice cream. C’mon, you bozos. Kill each other, already.”
I moved to the center of the field and stood twenty feet apart from Night, straight on and bowlegged like Old West gunfighters at high noon. We would’ve preferred to stand at right angles to each other. Neither of us wanted to look like wusses in front of the assembled hard cases.
Night kept his hands relaxed and slightly away from his body. Hard for me not to dwell on the fact that he’d dusted at least forty guys in his time.
“Go ahead, Coleridge. I’ll give you a jump. Put your hand on the butt of your pistol. Easy, very easy.”
“Thanks.” I carefully did as he advised and waited.
He glanced at the silent crowd. The vaguest trace of a sneer crept over his lips.
“Whenever you feel froggy—”
I started my draw before he finished his thought. I’m not the fastest gun. Faster than the vast majority, though. I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.
He had the Glock cleared and its barrel oriented on my torso before I even dragged the .357 free of leather. Snap! Snap! Snap! The Glock’s hammer made the same impotent sound it had when he’d dry-fired earlier.
I holstered my revolver.
To my left, Fat Frank looped piano wire around Tony Flowers’s neck and took his head partly off with a single convulsive sawing motion. Tony’s sidekick lacked a neck to garrote. Bobby the Whip stuck a pistol to the goon’s temple and popped him.
Vitale Night tossed his useless weapon into the weeds. He croaked a brief, awful laugh and lit a cigarette.
“Damn. It’s like that?” After no one spoke, he gestured toward Curtis in disgust. “For him? For that palooka nigger, you shed Family blood?”
“Not for him,” Curtis said. “This is business, Vitale. Nome obituaries are going to be hopping this week. Last night, a local business owner and two associates suspected of dabbling in the ivory trade were found deceased on an isolated beach twelve miles southeast of Nome. The police are treating the deaths as a homicide.”
I reached behind my back where I’d tucked the jade war club into my waistband and brought it forth.
“The hit has been out on you and your crew since I reported your extracurricular activities to Mr. Apollo. The mooks in Nome were warned and warned that poaching brought too much heat for too little reward. Apollo got tired of talking to a brick wall.”
“It’s true,” Curtis said to Night. “You were told to lay off. Chicago wanted to put you down with the local ivory buyers. Mr. Apollo said no, not unless you crossed the line and went mad-dog.”
“Here you are, foaming at the muzzle,” I said.
Vitale Night eyed the club. He took a long drag of his cigarette, tossed the butt, and flicked open a pearl-handled switchblade. Held it expertly, dangling it before his midsection.
“Let’s see the color of your guts,” he said, cold and composed. He sprang toward me with sickening alacrity.
I accepted a shallow slash along the muscle of my shoulder as I pivoted. The cut seared white-hot, but only affected me in the ecstatic fashion that comes once you’ve been wounded so often pain transforms into an eager companion. My heart beat faster. I swatted him and shattered his knife hand. He twisted, teeth snapping at my nose, and I rammed the knob of the club into his belly. He fell to his knees. I hammered his clavicle and it pulped and his arm dangled.
Vitale Night hissed and stiffened every muscle in his body. His eyes were wild beyond reason. I moved behind him, caught his tie in my fist, and jerked upward while driving my knee into his spine. When I finally released tension, blood leaked from his mouth with a bubbling sigh and he toppled facedown into the weeds.
Fifteen, maybe twenty seconds to complete the entire macabre scene.
Deluca foot soldiers dragged the corpses away. The captains and lieutenants checked their watches. They stubbed cigarettes and shrugged on coats and shook hands the way guys do after a particularly excellent lodge meeting.
“There lies Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” Curtis said. He touched my sleeve and winced at the red seeping from the seam. “You got gashed. That suit’s done. Frankie, take him back to the shop and get this cleaned up.” He produced a handkerchief and wiped his fingers fastidiously. “Happily ever after, huh?”
“Vitale has relatives,” I said. “Anyway. Thanks, Curtis.”
“Thanks for what? We didn’t see nothin’. We don’t know nothin’. Keep your nose clean, big boy. Your fixing enterprise steps on any of our toes . . . Well, I don’t gotta harp on it, do I? For the love of Mary, no hitting.”
“Forget it. I’ve moved on from that.”
“Yeah?” He glanced pointedly at the bloody grass.
“I don’t have to kill anybody I don’t want to.”
“So you’ve said.”
“This time, I wanted to.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Between calling Lionel to let him know I’d survived, a hot shower, two rolls of bandages wrapped around my chest, and obtaining a fresh suit from Bobby the Whip’s Big & Tall selection, I turned up late for the Halloween parade along Main Street in New Paltz. Thankfully, Meg had downed a celebratory shot of Cuervo and was in a forgiving mood. She’d dressed as Batgirl. Housemate Lauren accompanied her as the Black Canary. Neither costume left much to the imagination.
“Reel your tongue in before you make a scene,” Meg said into my ear as she landed a smooch.
“Happy Halloween, Isaiah,” Lauren said, bright as a chipmunk on speed. “What are you supposed to be?”
“Mack the Knife.” I doffed my brand-new gray homburg and bowed slightly. The equally new pearl-handled switchblade lay heavy in my pocket.
“Psst!” Meg said, smirking. “Isn’t that hat a bit small on you?”
We sat on the terrace of Broody Jack’s and watched the ragtag army of ghouls, goblins, and sequin-studded princesses move past while puppeteers manipulated lumbering dragons and ogres by wire and solemn witches in oversized conical hats held aloft paper lanterns to light the way. The ladies sipped margaritas. Black coffee for me. A chill descended from the stars, but Meg shared her cape. She asked me how the farm had been. I said I’d sliced myself while hoisting a new part on the tractor and laid a barn burner of a kiss on her to change the subject.
After the stragglers rounded the bend in a final hail of kazoo shrills and drum thuds, Lauren excused herself. She had a hot date with friends to catch a rockabilly band in Woodstock.
“So, Anatolia for dinner, drinks, and maybe more?” I said to Meg as we stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Actually, I’m thinking let’s skip the restaurant for tonight.”
“Whatever you say, Ms. Gordon.”
“The ex has a thing in the city. He asked if I could take Devlin early.”
“Absolutely,” I said with as much gallantry as I could muster. “Your rain checks are always good with me, baby.”
She laughed and patted my cheek.
“No, sweetie. I meant, we should have dinner at my place. I told Devlin you know your stuff when it comes to comic books. He’s raring to meet you.” She hesitated. “We’ve dragged our feet long enough. Correction: I’ve dragged my feet long enough. Time to bite the bullet and make this official. We are kinda sorta official, right?”
“Raring to meet me,” I said.
“Yep.”
We made it most of the way to where I’d parked when she finally glimpsed my face in the shine of a streetlamp.
“Oh, wow. Are you okay? You’re sweating.”
Indeed, sweat dripped down my jaw and neck. My shirt had already soaked through.
“I’m super-duper.” I struggled to sound brave.
“You’re green around the gills.”
She stepped closer and rose on tiptoe to peer at me. “Oh. My. God. Isaiah Coleridge. Are you scared? Don’t lie!”
I swallowed and showed her my thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“Maybe a tiny bit nervous.”
“Jesus, you great, enormous lunk.” She kissed me. “It’s going to be fine. Devlin doesn’t maim most of the guys I bring home.”
“In that case,” I said.
“Fret not, killer. I’ll protect you.”
“Lead on, then.”
The moon busted through the clouds. For a moment I expected to behold a skull hanging there. Only Luna, full and yellow, riding low on the horizon.
Meg took my clammy hand in hers. We walked into the night.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my agent, Janet Reid; my editors, Sara Minnich and Alexis Sattler; Tony Davis, for his invaluable copyedits; and John Langan, for his invaluable advice and support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Laird Barron was born in Alaska, where he raised huskies and worked in the construction and fishing industries for much of his youth. He is the author of several short story collections and two novels, and his work has also appeared in many magazines and anthologies. A multiple Locus, World Fantasy, and Bram Stoker award nominee, he is also a three-time winner of the Shirley Jackson Award. Barron lives in Kingston, New York.
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