Ghosts of Manhattan

by George Mann

  "That's enough." It was the voice of the goon who had shot at him earlier. The Ghost looked up, still gasping for breath, to see the two golems retreating to make way for the crook. "I want the pleasure of finishing this one myself."

  The man came into view, a snide expression on his thin, pale face. He brandished his gun in front of him. The Ghost realized the goon must have retrieved it whilst he was engaged with the moss men. "So, you're the guy who took out Bobby Hendriks, eh? Don't look too much to me." He laughed, glancing over at Mickey.

  That was his fatal mistake. The Ghost took his chance. He swung his arm around, squeezing the trigger in his fist and loosing a storm of silver blades in the direction of the gangster's head. The flechettes struck home, ripping into the man's face, flensing flesh from bone as the relentless stream of razor-sharp metal turned the man's head into a bloody pulp. He was dead in seconds. The Ghost didn't wait to see how the others would react. Still crouching, he reached inside his trench coat and pulled the cord that ignited the canisters strapped to the backs of his boots. There was a flash of bright yellow light, and then the Ghost shot into the air, up the side of the wall toward a windowsill. He howled in agony as he realized, too late, that the canisters weren't adjusted properly. The hungry flames scorched his ankles through the tough hide of his boots. He could feel his skin bubbling and blistering under the intense heat. Anything, though, was better than death.

  Bullets ricocheted off the wall behind him. Mickey had found his automatic, and his confidence. But it had come too late. Using the wall to spin himself around, the Ghost kicked his legs out and propelled himself through the second-story window, covering his head with his arms so that the splintering glass wouldn't lacerate his face. He shot into the dark room beyond, striking his head hard against the ceiling. Dazed, he reached inside his jacket, pulled the cord, and fell, with a loud, painful bump, to the floor. By the remains of the window, tiny flames were licking at the edges of the curtains like mischievous imps. He lay there on his back for a moment, breathing hard. The room was dark and devoid of life. The backs of his legs were agony, and he had a pain deep in his stomach were the moss man had struck him the blow. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

  Then, rolling onto his side, he scrambled to his feet, using the back of a sofa as leverage, and began to hobble-painfully-toward the door. He had to get out of there before Mickey sent the moss golems after him. He was in no fit state to continue the fight. He presumed the apartment must belong to the shopkeeper, and felt a momentary surge of guilt. He'd failed. He'd been unable to help the man. But it wasn't over yet. He'd be back, and the Roman's men would know vengeance. For now, though, he had to find his way back to his apartment before any other of the Roman's goons discovered he was hurt. He was already sure the mob boss had half of the city looking for him, and he didn't want to get caught out in the open unprepared.

  A moment later he had crossed the room, opened the internal door, and slipped out into the dark passage beyond, heading for the rooftops, and home.

  onovan quit the restaurant with a heavy heart. It was late, and he knew Flora must have been in bed for hours. He'd thought about calling her from the holo-booth in the back of La Campagna-the Commissioner's favorite eatery-but even then he knew he'd left it too late. Still, he sighed to himself, he supposed she was used to it. Such was the life of a woman married to a police officer. That was the advice the Commissioner's wife, Patricia Montague, was regularly heard passing out to the wives of the junior officers: get used to the eccentric hours, the lack of calls, the fact he'll probably forget your birthday-or leave now. There was a strange irony in that, of course: the Commissioner hardly kept unusual hours, and Mrs. Montague, with her flashing red talons, eyeliner, and short skirts, had a reputation for being one of the biggest flirts in town. It was hardly a model relationship.

  The Commissioner had invited Donovan to dinner to talk over the situation regarding the Roman, or rather, to apply another liberal dose of pressure to the inspector while the older, portly man took his fill of pasta. As if that was what Donovan needed right now, to be reminded that he had to do a better job whilst watching the Commissioner eat.

  Commissioner Montague had explained that he was anxious to bring the situation to a head. He wanted to break the Roman's hold on the city, and to put an end to the recent spate of murders attributed to the Italian's mob. "And Felix," the Commissioner had said, leaning over the table with a cigar in his hand, his bushy gray moustache twitching as he spoke, "what's it with all these funny names, hmmm? `The Roman.' `The Ghost.' You go ahead and tell them that I'm `the Commissioner,' won't you, and that I won't hear any more of it, hmmm. Not one bit of it!"

  And with that he had rocked back in his chair, grinning wolfishly at his young wife, his smoldering cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. That outburst, apparently, was going to help Donovan to solve the case and smash the mob. It was all he could do not to throw his drink at the man and storm out of the place.

  Instead, he had nodded appreciatively, assured the Commissioner that he was doing everything in his power to close the net on the Roman, and that he would redouble his efforts in the morning. As far as this "Ghost" was concerned, he would keep his ear to the ground and try to anticipate any further activity. What he didn't add was that, in his opinion, this "Ghost" had actually done them a favor, and that he wished the Commissioner would grant the police a little more leeway to do the same.

  He'd had to sit through coffee, listening to anecdotes he'd heard a thousand times before and feeling embarrassed by the attention that Mrs. Montague was lavishing on the handsome young waiter. Then, finally, it was over, and he'd been set free to go about his business.

  "Remember to tell them what I said, won't you, Felix?"

  He'd bunched his fists in his coat pockets so hard that he'd probably drawn blood.

  Now it was a quarter after eleven and he knew that by the time he was home, he'd only catch a few hours' sleep before morning. Poor Mullins would have to suffer another day of tired imprecations.

  Donovan turned the corner and stopped to draw a cigarette. He pulled the ignition tab but it didn't spark. Cursing, he discarded the useless white stick and took another from the packet. It was dark on 43rd Street. People had retired for the night, and the roads were still and empty. Dark shapes hulked in the shadows: garbage cans; railings; an old easy chair, abandoned in the middle of the sidewalk. Above, in the distance, searchlights reflected off the underside of pregnant clouds and the moon was hazy and lost behind a thick screen of mist.

  The deafening roar of a rocket firing overhead momentarily punctuated the silence, causing Donovan to look up. A biplane had just taken off from the roof of one of the nearby buildings, its rocket launcher burning with brilliant light as it surged away into the sky on a great plume, leaving a shimmering trail in its wake. Donovan watched it as it banked to the left and disappeared around a skyscraper, its rocket booster fading to a dull glow as the propellers engaged. A moment later, the sky was clear once more.

  Donovan shook his head. The world was changing. Already, the airships of his youth were becoming outmoded, archaic, a thing of the past. They still used them, of course. They were faster than steamships, and the new airplanes were only reliable over short distances. But he knew it wouldn't be long before something else came along to replace them. The Cold War would see to that. With the British to spy on, technology was being driven forward at an incredible rate.

  Still, for all this technology, the criminals remained the same. They never changed. They were always after power and money. No matter what tools they had at their disposal, what new schemes they cooked up, a crook was a crook, plain and simple. The Roman was the same. Just another guy who thought the world owed him an existence, and who'd decided to take it regardless, no matter how many people put themselves in his way.

  The Ghost ... He was different, although Donovan had yet to put his finger on the guy's motivation. What was it that inspired someone to don a b
lack suit and head out into the night to stop a bank job? He could see why it made the Commissioner nervous. It showed the police force up for what it really was: a bureaucratic bunch of peacekeepers who didn't truly have the power or the means to put a stop to the organized crime that was infecting the city. He needed to find out who this "Ghost" character was. Then he'd have to decide whether to shake him by the hand or lock him in a cell and throw away the key. If only he co-

  Donovan pulled up short, his previous thought dissolving as he stared, fascinated, at the strange sight before him. There, on the sidewalk, were three dead birds. They were pigeons, he thought, although he couldn't be certain in this light, as their bodies were so contorted and mangled. They could have been rooks. This was the third time he'd encountered a similar sight in different locations around the city, and he looked up inquisitively, trying to ascertain whether they had fallen from the sky this way, or whether they had been caught by some sort of predator and then later abandoned. There was no way of telling.

  Donovan grimaced. His cigarette was burning low, wreathing him in pale blue smoke. He was feeling edgy. He needed to get home.

  He turned to see a long, sleek-looking car purr up to the sidewalk a few feet from where he was standing. It was a new, expensive model; black and pristine, its headlamps gleamed in the darkness and steam curled from the tall exhaust funnels at the rear. The windows were black and glassy, and he couldn't see anyone inside. He eyed it warily, unsure of the significance of its appearance.

  Presently, just as Donovan was considering heading on his way, the front passenger window rolled down and a fat, porcine face peered out. The man was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a black jacket. He looked at Donovan with a haughty amusement. "Hey, Donovan. There's a man here who'd like to speak with you." He nodded at someone unseen in the back seat and the rear door nearest the curb clicked open, swinging out toward him.

  Donovan peered inside the vehicle, but all he could see was shadows. He cleared his throat. "I'm busy." He flicked his cigarette butt at the wall and started slowly on his way. He knew it was dangerous to turn his back on these people-he might easily end up with a bullet in it-but he knew also that getting inside that car would be an even more reckless pursuit. The police did not parley with the mob.

  Keeping his head down, Donovan picked up his pace. He did not look back at the car. He made it about fifty yards before he became aware of the slow hissing sound of the vehicle as it reversed along the curb, and a moment later it pulled alongside him, creeping slowly so as to keep pace with him as he walked.

  Donovan glanced over. The rear door was still hanging open, with its sinister invitation to climb inside. He continued to walk.

  "Inspector Donovan. I really think it would be in your best interest to take me up on my offer to talk." The voice was thin and reedy, highpitched for a man, and all the more minacious because of it. It emanated from the rear of the vehicle.

  Donovan could see that the crook hanging out of the passenger window was now brandishing a snub-nosed automatic and was waving it in his direction. His options looked pretty limited. If he went for his own weapon, he'd likely be dropped by the goon before he had chance to draw it. But who was the character in the back of the car, and what the hell did he want? Was it some sort of elaborate trap? Was he going to end up like that poor bastard Landsworth? He shuddered at the thought.

  Donovan stopped walking and turned to regard the vehicle. The driver hit the brakes and the car swung in alongside the curb. Donovan felt his pulse quicken. The back of his neck was damp with perspiration, despite the chill. He held his arms out in front of him to show that he had no intention of making any sudden moves. But he did not approach the vehicle. "Why don't you come out here and talk?" He gave a wry smile. He knew he was walking close to the line. "I have difficulties with confined spaces."

  The goon in the front waved his weapon more forcefully in Donovan's direction. "It doesn't do to refuse a direct invitation from Mr. Gideon, policeman. I suggest you get into the car now."

  Shrugging, Donovan approached the open door. If it was a choice between that and being riddled with bullets on the sidewalk, well, at least this way he had a fighting chance. Resting a hand on the roof of the vehicle, he peered inside. A thin, spidery man, silhouetted by the weak light thrown out by the burning end of his cigar, sat in the back of the car, one leg folded atop the other. He was dressed in an exquisite black evening suit. He turned to look at Donovan and offered him a wicked smile. "You see, Inspector, we're not going to bite." The man chuckled, and the sound was like ice water running down Donovan's spine. "Please, get in, take a seat. It's late. Allow me to escort you home."

  Donovan cringed at the thought that these people-whoever they turned out to be-knew where he lived. Still, it was too late to make a run for it now.

  Dipping his head, Donovan slid into the car beside the thin man, clicking the door shut behind him. It was dark, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The man in the back was like a pale specter, the glowing end of his cigar the only source of light in the whole vehicle. The front seats were separated from the rear compartment by a glass partition. Donovan wrinkled his nose. The vehicle was filled with the scent of damp earth, intermingled with the pungent stench of the cigar smoke.

  Donovan leaned back against the firm leather seat as the car purred softly away from the curb. He was reassured by the weight of the automatic in his pocket, and the fact that the goon in the front no longer had a bead on him, although he was quite sure that any wrong moves now would be swiftly and efficiently punished. Reaching into his pocket he carefully withdrew his packet of cigarettes, placed one between his parted lips, and pulled the tab. Then, trying to maintain his nerve, he glanced at the man who had, effectively, taken him prisoner. "So ... Mr. Gideon?"

  The man leaned forward and his face loomed out of the murk, stark and white. "Gideon Reece. I work for the Roman."

  So that was what this was all about. The Roman. Donovan almost gave a sigh of relief. At least he had some idea of what he was dealing with. He took the cigarette from his lips and allowed a riffle of smoke to flood from his nostrils. "The Roman, eh? So tell me, is he an affable sort of boss?"

  A smile curled at the edges of Gideon Reece's lips, and he turned his head as if listening for something that wasn't there. For the first time since getting into the vehicle, Donovan noticed that the other man was missing the uppermost half of his left ear. "Affable enough, Inspector, as long as one pays one's due respects. Are you a respectful man?"

  "Respect has to be earned, Mr. Reece."

  "Yes. I believe it does. But it can also be bought." The man reached inside his coat and produced a brown paper envelope. He rubbed his hand over it in a bizarrely ritualistic gesture, and then placed it ceremoniously on Donovan's knee. Donovan picked it up, unfolded the flap, and looked inside. The envelope was stuffed with used bills. There must have been a thousand dollars in there. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a long draw on his cigarette.

  "The Roman would like to offer you a token of his respect. He understands that you've been finding things ... difficult ... of late, and would like to compensate you for your trouble. He's aware that you've been having problems sleeping, Inspector. Anyone in your position would. It's understandable. You've seen some terrible things. The state of poor Mr. Landsworth, for example. I'm sure you'd rather just blank the entire affair from your mind ..."

  Donovan grinned. So this was a payoff. Forget about the murder of an odious old politician and walk away with a cool thousand in dollar bills. Flora would be ecstatic with that. For a moment, he was almost tempted. But he was a better cop than that. He was a better man than that. And besides, he knew it would never stop there. Once he'd taken the Roman's paycheck, it would only be a matter of time before someone was leaning on him again. He knew how it worked; he'd seen it a hundred times before.

  Sighing, he laid the envelope neatly on the seat beside him. "You can tell the Roman that, whilst I
appreciate his offer, my memory is in good working order, and I'm sleeping just fine." He took another long draw on his cigarette, listening to the sound of the paper crackling as he pulled the nicotine into his lungs. There was silence for a few moments, save for the hissing sigh of the steam vents at the rear of the car as it slid along the road.

  Finally, Gideon Reece spoke once more. "I'm not sure you fully understand what's being offered to you, Inspector Donovan. This is a gift. To refuse it would be to, well ... to fail to show respect." He paused, sucking thoughtfully on the end of his cigar. "We've already discussed the importance of respect. Landsworth had no respect." Another pause. He turned to regard the inspector and his eyes flashed with menace. "I'm sure that makes things clearer for you?"

  Donovan didn't answer. He understood only too well what was being intimated. He was being presented with an ultimatum: take the money and dine with the devil, or end up dead in a backstreet, or worse, with his pants around his ankles in a hotel suite like that poor bastard Landsworth. He knew it wasn't an idle threat. But somehow that only worked to strengthen his resolve. Now it was him or the Roman. And what was more, he knew they were getting nervous. Why else would they try to buy him off?

  Donovan glanced out of the window. They were in his neighborhood. He met the other's penetrating stare with a steady gaze. "Can I think about it?"

  Reece laughed again, a cruel, terrible laugh. He spread his hands in a placatory gesture. "Of course, Inspector. Of course." He waved his fat cigar beside his head, as if somehow plucking thoughts out of thin air. "But if I may, I'll leave you with some well-intentioned advice. Don't go against him. He's been at this game for a long time. A very long time. Longer than you could possibly imagine. He knows how to get what he wants." He smiled, leaning back in his seat. "I'll need your answer by midnight on Friday."