I Kill Monsters: Fury (Book 1)

by Tony Monchinski

  “Who’s Carmine?” asked Santa Anna.

  “One of Dickie Nicolie’s men,” noted Madison. “He’s a soldier.”

  Carmine left the diner with a cardboard box with four coffees and a brown paper bag of food.

  “Mind if I ask you about prison?” Jay had returned to the table and rejoined them.

  “Damn,” said Santa Anna. “Everybody wants to know about prison today. Go ahead.”

  “How long were you away for?”

  “Nine years. Almost ten.”

  “Damn,” said Hamilton.

  “That’s what I said,” agreed Santa Anna. “Every day.”

  “What’s prison like?” asked Jay.

  “It’s good to be out.”

  “Is it anything like the movies?” Madison asked.

  “I don’t know,” admitted Santa Anna. “Are the vampires in this world anything like the movies?”

  “Well,” Madison replied. “Not like that Anne Rice shit.”

  “My wife loves them books,” noted Santa Anna. “So, I know you got yourself a woman,” he said to Jay, and then addressed the other two men, “but what about you guys. You married or anything?”

  “Married, shit,” said Hamilton. “Fuck that noise. No offense.”

  “We’re players for life, man,” added Madison.

  “Know this place over off Roosevelt Avenue,” explained Hamilton. “Got the finest ladies in the city. Gonna go over there and get our knobs slobbed when we’re done here. Want to go with us?”

  Santa Anna grinned. “No. Think I’ll head home. See my wife and kids. Can one of you guys drop me off at my car?”

  “Yeah,” said Jay. “We got you.”

  Hamilton was looking at his watch. “Let me up, I gotta go call my bookie. Yankees playing the Angels tonight.” He threw some bills on the table. “Ask the lady for the check.”

  13.

  10:01 A.M.

  “Mr. Mojo Rising, my man.”

  Every time Boone walked into the record store in Harlem the old black man looked up at him from behind his sunglasses and his counter and greeted him the same way. Not much unnerved Boone, but he did have to wonder how the blind man knew it was him each time.

  “Blind.” Boone bumped the outstretched fist with his own.

  The store was packed with bins of records and CDs and some customers perusing them. Boone had been coming here for a few years and had judged technological advances by the products the old man stocked. Cassette tapes had disappeared, replaced by CDs. Walkmen gave way to Discmen. Phonograph turntables were joined by digital turntables. The old man continued to stock a large supply of records: everything from Do Wop for the old timers to twelve-inchers for the DJs and club kids.

  An old bluesman was singing about John the Revelator on the house system.

  “Give me a second, Mojo.” Blind, talking to a young Indian guy at the counter, held a finger up for Boone. Boone sidled up to the counter and leaned against it.

  “That Twin Hype you recommended last time, they loved it,” the Indian guy was saying. Boone gave the cat the once over. Flashy clothes, platinum. Some kind of DJ or something. “What else you got, get people on their feet?”

  “You hear Black Rob yet?”

  “Nah, Mr. Charles. Who dat?”

  Charles. Everyone but Boone called the blind man Mr. Charles. That was his name. That was the name on the outside of the store. Boone called him Blind after the Cheech and Chong skit, Blind Melon Chittlin’. Blind called him Mojo after the Doors’ song.

  “He dropped some lyrics on the 112 remix—Come see me. Puffy been sitting on this brother’s album…”

  As he listened to their conversation and leaned his elbow against the counter top, Boone scanned the record store. Part of the fun for the customers who came to the place was to look through the bins of records and recordings. Boone knew there were people who came here and spent hours just looking. Blind didn’t mind, or if he did he never said anything.

  “Black Rob that young nigga appeared on Mase’s cut last year, right?”

  “One and the same,” nodded the old man.

  Keisha was working the register across the store. Keisha was Blind’s daughter and she was, in Boone’s estimation, smoking hot. Keisha was ringing a customer up and Boone let his gaze dwell on her ample breasts, glad her father was blind and couldn’t see him doing so.

  “Now what you need to do is walk yourself over to that aisle over there and find you some Powerrule.”

  “Powerrule?”

  “Yeah, the white boys love that, right Boone?”

  Boone ignored him.

  “They mix Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2 in their hook. Believe me, it works.”

  “Aight, Mr. Charles. Thanks.”

  The old man nodded, smiling but showing no teeth.

  Boone wondered if Keisha was wearing those stretchy pants he liked her in. She had about thirty pounds of ass on her. Keisha rarely gave him the time of day, but this hadn’t stopped Boone from rubbing one out thinking about her about a hundred times before. If she ever gave him the chance, he’d worship that ass. For an hour at least.

  “What you lookin’ at, Mojo?” the Indian guy had wandered off to find his one hit wonders and the old man had turned his full attention on Boone. Boone shook his head. How the fuck did Blind know? Every fucking time…

  But the old man didn’t dwell on it. “These kids today, ain’t nothin’ if they ain’t eclectic. From Son House to King Sun and everything in between. So what you need, Mojo?”

  “Couple of things,” said Boone. “One’s information.”

  “On what?”

  “Not a what this time. A who.”

  “Who it be then?”

  “What do you know about a guy ran with Gossitch, colored guy named Santa Anna?”

  Blind looked at Boone through his shades. “Colored guy, huh?”

  “You know what I mean, Blind. Black.”

  “Well, let me ask you, Mojo. What you know ‘bout guy run with Gossitch called Santa Anna?”

  “I know I did some work with him this morning.” Boone looked around the store as he said it. There was no one close enough to overhear their conversation. “I know he just got out of the big house a short while ago.”

  “Santa Anna. Now there’s a man knew how to stand up. They got him, and they woulda’ got Gossitch and Bowie and all ‘em from that old crew, if he’d opened up. But the man kept his shit silent. Didn’t say word one. Glad to hear he’s out.”

  “Okay, that’s all sweet and shit, but is he trustworthy?”

  “All that muscle on top of your shoulders squeezin’ your head, Mojo? Didn’t you hear anything I just said to you? Man kept his mouth closed. Man went away.”

  “Yeah, I heard you, Blind.”

  The old man shook his head. “You here asking me about one of your own, eh? Ain’t that somethin’. Maybe you better ask Gossitch himself.”

  “Yeah. Guess I will. You got anything for me?”

  “Come on in back a second, Mojo. Keisha!”

  The woman looked up at her father. When she saw Boone a look not too far from disgust crossed her face.

  “I be back in a minute, honey.”

  Blind lifted part of the counter-top and stepped out from behind the counter. He navigated the aisles of his store without a cane.

  “Hey, Blind,” remarked Boone as he followed. “I don’t think your daughter likes me.”

  “She a smart one that girl.”

  14.

  10:12 A.M.

  “Now, this is some of that good Peruvian shit…” Blind was saying of an open kilo bag of cocaine on the table in front of them. “Only been stepped on once. Have a taste.”

  Boone reached into the bag with a key and scooped up a small mound of the powder. He pinched one nostril shut with a thumb and inhaled the powder, licking the key. It hit him immediately. Instant heightened perception. Like seeing in 3-D.

  “Yeah, this shit is nice.�
� He licked his gums.

  “How much you want? Eightball?”

  “No, better make it a quarter ounce.”

  “What—you got a party coming up or somethin’?”

  “You know me, Blind. My whole fuckin’ life is a party.”

  “I know ye-yo, my man, and this here is a young man’s drug. You best watch yourself with this shit—”

  “You a drug dealer or what?”

  The old man smiled. “When I think I need to, I be first to cut you off. You a grown boy, Boone. Weigh it out yourself.”

  There was a digital scale on the table and baggies of various sizes. Boone scooped from the key on the table and filled a bag, measuring it. The old man sat back, humming, and didn’t seem concerned that Boone would cheat him by taking more than the agreed upon weight. Boone never would.

  “You still carrying that Dirty Harry bullshit?” the old man asked as Boone finished up.

  Boone nodded.

  “Why don’t you take a look at this?”

  He pushed a blue gun case across the table to Boone. When Boone opened it and hefted the revolver inside he whistled.

  “Nice.”

  “That’s a Ruger Speed-Six. Three fifty seven. Double action.”

  “Pocket pistol,” noted Boone, somewhat sour. “I ain’t lookin’ to trade down.”

  “Granted, it don’t carry the look of authority o’ that forty-four weighin’ you down, but you can conceal it easier.”

  “Can it punch through an engine block?”

  “No, but it’ll knock most men and all the other shit you might meet out there off they feet. Why, you expectin’ ta start a beef with a Mack Truck?”

  “How much?”

  “I can let you have it for ten yards.”

  “A big one, huh?”

  “That gun’s clean, Mojo. You know how I work.”

  “Yeah, I know how you work, Blind. You bought this wholesale off Hephy. Let me have it retail, right?”

  “You want to save yourself a few dollars, go on an’ see the armorer himself, Mojo.”

  “I’ll pay your daughter out front, right?”

  “You got it. Need any shells?”

  “Nah, I got some three fifty sevens and thirty eights somewhere. Hey, when’s that Jintropin coming in?”

  “Waitin’ to hear from my connect down in China Town. Should be any day. Now that’s a drug you gotta look out for.”

  “You sellin’ me cocaine and you can say that?”

  “Mojo, GH is what killed Alzado.”

  “Maybe,” nodded Boone. “But back then they were raiding cadavers for the shit, Blind. Today everything’s synthetic. Won’t cause no mad cow.”

  “Jacob Creutzfeld”

  “Don’t know him,” said Boone. “But I think his name is Creutzfeld-Jacob.”

  “You’s funnier than you look, Mojo.”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Seriously though, you don’t want to go overboard with that shit. Have your hands and feet growin’.”

  “Nah, Blind. The shit to look out for’s the insulin. ‘Slin will fuck you up. I mean, it’ll put twenty pounds on your like that.” Boone snapped his fingers. “But it’ll fuck you up.”

  “Give me a call in a couple of days. Should have those kits for you by Friday. Then we can watch your chin grow.”

  “Will do, Blind.”

  “Oh, and I got those CDs for you up front too. Ask Keisha.”

  “I will. Mind if I take another bip before I go?”

  “Help yourself,” invited the old man. “Customer satisfaction what we strive for ‘round here. Or some shit.”

  15.

  10:20 A.M.

  Keisha took one look into Boone’s dilated pupils and shook her head. She held out her hand.

  “Hey there, Kee,” Boone handed her a roll of hundred dollar bills. “How you been girl?”

  “Don’t try to talk what you think is black to me, Boone,” she said. She handed him a paper bag with the record store’s logo on it. “As a matter of fact, don’t try to talk to me at all. Next.”

  Boone turned but there was no one on line behind him. When he turned back around Keisha was busying herself with something.

  “Okay, you be good then.”

  The woman didn’t say anything.

  16.

  10:45 A.M.

  Gossitch pulled a towel off the rack and dried himself in the shower. He was tired.

  He stepped onto the cool tile floor and into his house slippers, wrapping the towel around his midsection. He wasn’t fat but he was thickening with middle age.

  The house was quiet. Had been for a long time.

  He reached to the sink and retrieved the 9mm in its shoulder rig, slinging it over his arm.

  In his bedroom, he put on a pair of boxers and a white t-shirt.

  He’d eaten a meal and finally calmed down from this morning’s work. That vampire walking around outside, what had that been about?

  He stopped in the kitchen to hock and spit in the garbage pail. Damn cigarettes were killing him.

  In his spartan living room, he popped a cassette into the tape deck. Solomon Burke filled the room. Gossitch sat down on his papa sahn chair, the shoulder rig and the gun on his lap. The three briefcases were lined up next to the chair.

  “…When your baby leaves you all alone/ and nobody calls you on the phone…”

  Gossitch fired up a Marlboro and sat back in his chair.

  He didn’t know why he did it to himself. He missed Renee. Gossitch was in his early fifties. It wasn’t too late to start again, start a family even. He just had no desire. The men he worked with were his family. He’d recruited each one. They got together a few times a year, put in some work, went their separate ways.

  Tonight they’d meet at a club Gossitch knew the owner of. He’d divvy out the money, they’d drink too much, maybe a few of the guys would go home with women. Then they’d disperse and not see each other until the next job.

  He tapped his ashes out into an ash tray on his lap.

  Gossitch didn’t encourage fraternization outside the job. Better each man kept his own life. Learn too much about each other and the minute one got in a jam he became a liability to all the rest. Only Gossitch had contact information for each guy in his crew. He knew Madison, Hamilton, and Jay hung out outside of work, but he couldn’t do anything about that. He himself spent more time with Boone than any of the other men in the crew. Sure Boone was rough around the edges, but he had potential and was good to have around.

  He wondered if the kid had meant to shoot that vampire in the trailer. He’d have to talk to him about that. Maybe it was a good thing the kid couldn’t shoot worth a damn. Give Boone a scattergun or machine gun, the kid could inflict some damage. And he had hands. But when it came to a pistol, well…

  Gossitch studied the glowing tip of his smoke. It had burned down, almost to the filter.

  Santa Anna had comported himself well. Gossitch had been a little worried that prison might have softened Carter, but he’d held his stuff together today. One thing Gossitch couldn’t figure, was why the kid seemed to have it in for the guy. He’d have to talk to Boone about that too.

  Gossitch decided he’d turn in, get some sleep. He ground the butt of the cigarette out in the ash tray and stood, slinging the holster over his arm again, picking up two of the briefcases. He’d have to come back for the third. He would sleep with them in the same room he was in.

  “…nothing could be sadder,” Burke sang, “than a glass of wine, all alone…”

  17.

  11:59 A.M.

  She was attuned to her Master’s needs and therefore this morning found herself gripped by the same melancholia that had taken hold of him.

  When she had entered his service, she had ceased thinking of herself as a unique individual. She had had a name once, but no more. She was his. Kreshnik’s victories were hers. His vexations as well. She lived to serve. His needs were sated in and upon her pe
rson.

  Kreshnik sat in the dark of the warehouse, bathed in the glow of the television screen. She knelt before him, attending to his hands. Cruel, vicious instruments they were, stained with blood from the morning’s kill. She had worked the dried blood from under the nails and now filed each to a sharpened point. He largely ignored her, intent on the screen.

  When he had come into her life, she had renounced her husband, her child, her family. She had turned her back on her species. Her childhood, adolescence, and young womanhood were lost to her as though none had ever been hers. Her being was caught up in its entirety in the moment, in serving, in being his. She was a part of her Master.

  She was his nuse, his bride.

  On CNN, the KLA was fighting to establish an independent Kosovo. She knew her Master wished to be there, to exult in the butchery of the Serbs, to participate in the rout of his people’s age old enemies. The Serbs. Slavs, like Rainford. She hated the Dark Lord, and she hated him because her Master did. The day would come when Kreshnik would rise up against the Dark Lord, when this next generation of the children of the night would assume their rightful position in the order of things, banishing their weak and antiquated forebears.

  But that time was not now.

  Her Master wore his hat even indoors. His gaze burned out from under it, fixed on the television. He longed to be home in the Balkans, running amuck. For the time being he was stuck here, in a warehouse in a city ripe with vermin. She had felt his frustration before and had cried for him, because Kreshnik would not weep. He could not cry. He could not bleed. He had been raised and perfected in the secret places of eastern Europe. Unlike others of his kind, he did not fear the sun. He despised it.

  As his body evolved, each day he could withstand it that much more. Soon, she knew, her Master would be able to walk openly in the day.