Ghosts of Manhattan

by George Mann

  "He leaned on the hood and stared directly at me, right at my face, and then he just carried on, as if nothing had happened. To tell you the truth, it was terrifying. Shook me up." He puffed on his cigarette. "He looked like he'd been in a fight."

  Celeste glanced at something-or someone-just out of sight of the holotube transmitter. "So you drove home instead of coming to the club." She seemed distracted.

  Gabriel nodded. "That's about the long and the short of it. Knocked back a couple of whiskies to numb the pain, and then called it a night."

  Celeste watched him, silently.

  "You know I would have been there if I'd felt up to it."

  No response.

  "Look, where are you? I can come back into town now. We could have lunch."

  Celeste laughed. "It's two o'clock, Gabriel. I've had lunch. Besides, by the time you get here I'll be preparing for tonight's show."

  Gabriel dropped the stub of his spent cigarette into the half-empty glass of water by the side of the holotube terminal. It fizzed for a moment and went out. He was glad it was out of sight of the blinking lens that reflected his image down the receiver. "Tonight. That's it, then. I'll come tonight. I'll attend to things here and come over."

  Celeste gave a wry smile. "Be sure not to hit any wayward vigilantes on your drive."

  Gabriel shrugged. "I'll take the train."

  She laughed. "You know where to find me." The link went dead, leaving him with nothing but a low burr.

  "I certainly do," he said aloud, before reaching for the whisky bottle he'd abandoned earlier that morning, pulling the stopper free, and taking a long slug.

  The train that ran from Long Island to Manhattan was a vast, gleaming masterpiece of modern engineering. Constructed around a shell of iron, it had a tip like a snub-nosed bullet capped with a carapace of shining white ceramic. The carriages snaked in a long procession, linked by joints of reinforced rubber, forming one continuous, open space within. Unlike the more traditional locomotives that still crisscrossed most of the country, the Long Island train had abandoned its reliance on steam and coal. Instead, the engineers had adopted a powerful pneumatic engine, created during the war for transporting missiles along the coast, but now relegated to shuffling people back and forth to the city. The result was a powerful, reliable, high-speed means of traveling to Manhattan Island, and Gabriel hated every moment of it.

  It wasn't the speed of the thing, nor the discomfort; a first-class ticket commanded a particularly high standard of travel, and Gabriel could easily afford it. It was simply the fact that he was too enamored by the sense of control he felt when he sat behind the wheel of his own car to care for the relatively passive experience of being a passenger on the train. He couldn't abide the notion that he was placing his own destiny in the hands of other people; no matter how unreasonable he knew that notion to be. He felt affronted by it, as if it somehow eroded him, made him lesser in some tiny way. It was a hangover from the war, from the horrible things that had happened to him over there, in Europe. Those experiences had left him feeling impatient, unwilling to concede control. Perhaps that was why he had a tendency to sabotage his own happiness. Perhaps.

  Like most of the lost generation, Gabriel Cross was damaged, irrevocably scarred. The difference was that he recognized the fact, and embraced it. It was this that had prevented him from going insane. But even that, he knew, was debatable.

  Stifling a yawn, he disembarked onto the platform, stopping to button his overcoat against the brisk winter chill. Behind him the engine sighed majestically, as if weary after its long journey, and the platform suddenly swelled with jostling people as the carriage disgorged the remains of its charge.

  He stood for a moment, watching the crowds of people as they swarmed toward the exit, one after another, just like a flock of birds. His hand dropped almost involuntarily into his pocket, fingers probing for the item he had secreted there earlier. He found it, and the cold, hard feel of it was reassuring. His service revolver. It was an old weapon, now, basic compared to the more advanced designs of recent years, but it had never let him down, and he carried it with him whenever he came to the city. Or rather, whenever he came to Joe's.

  Turning up the collar of his coat, he set off, following the herd of travelers as they scrambled up the steps toward the cold Manhattan night.

  The sky was clear when he emerged, his breath fogging in the frigid November air. It was dark, and the city was lit up like a showhall; electric lights burned in every tower, crisp and bright and stark against the black fabric of the sky. He checked his watch. Nine-thirty. He had time to walk.

  He set off, carrying himself with an insouciant air that he didn't feel. Cars hissed by on the road, their engines crackling with heat and steam. Pedestrians continued to spill from the station exit, flooding the sidewalks with their loose tongues and even looser morals. Drains exhaled columns of steam; the breath of the underworld rising unbidden into the physical realm. Gabriel marched on. It felt to him as if the city were somehow alive, as if it were watching him with impassionate eyes from every window, from every corner or shadowy doorway. The thought made him shudder. He wanted to stop for a cigarette, but instead he pressed on, turning a corner into a fierce breeze that rattled down the avenue, bringing a cold bite in off the ocean. He ducked his head and continued on his way.

  Half an hour later, just as he was beginning to wish that he'd taken a taxi after all, Gabriel rounded the block and turned onto East 14th Street. He blew into his hands to stave off the chill. The Sensation Club, or Joe's, as the regulars knew it, was between Fifth Avenue and Broadway, down a short flight of steps in the basement of a tenement building and behind an unmarked red door. The police knew about the place-of course they did-and knew also that it was patronized by a small-time crook named Johnny Franco, but they were also aware that the club served a valuable purpose. It kept the city's rich clientele away from the bigger, uglier drinking dens, and it kept Johnny Franco out of trouble. So they steered clear of the place, and Johnny went about his business, serving illegal gin to the elite of the city, reveling in the perceived radiance of the company he kept. Poor Ariadne had failed to see the charm of it all, but Gabriel knew it for what it was-an extension of the perpetual party, a home from home. And besides, Celeste was there.

  Gabriel rapped on the door, and presently the handle turned and a small crack appeared between the door and the jamb. He leaned closer. He could hear the distant strains of music, see a bright red light shining somewhere on the other side of the door. He turned his head. There was a scuffling sound from within, and then the door swung inward and a beaming man in a tuxedo was standing before him, waving him through to the mysterious club beyond. "Good evening, Mr. Cross. It's nice to see you again." The doorman, a wiry little fellow with a neatly trimmed beard and darting brown eyes, ushered him forward and swiftly closed the door behind him. "You're just in time. She'll be on in a moment."

  Gabriel nodded and shrugged off his overcoat. He handed it to the doorman. "Thank you, Clive."

  The doorman cocked his head. He looked concerned. "Have your hurt yourself, sir?"

  Gabriel looked down at his bandaged hand. "Oh, it's nothing, Clive. I had an incident in the car yesterday and gave it a knock. It'll be fine in a few days."

  "Glad to hear it, sir."

  Gabriel watched as the other man disappeared into a small cloakroom just off the lobby. Then, feeling the need for a smoke, he reached into his pocket, withdrew his cigarette case, and tapped out one of the small white sticks. He pulled the tab, and a moment later the sweet aroma of smoldering tobacco mingled with the myriad other scents in the club: alcohol, sweat, and cologne.

  Pausing just a moment longer to smooth his rumpled jacket, he passed along a corridor under the red glow of the lamps, turned a corner, and then descended a short flight of steps to the main amphitheater of the club. The staircase wound round in a tight spiral, and as he emerged into the dimly lit hall below, he had the sense of stepping into
another world; a hidden world, a fantasia of light and sound and debauchery, simmering just beneath the regular layers of the city. People laughed and caroused, sitting together in small cliques at a series of tables arranged around a large stage area, upon which a young woman-a pretty girl he'd never seen before-was performing a popular jazz tune. To the left of the stage was a long bar, with a smat tering of people seated on stools along its length, all watching the girl on the stage whilst idly toying with their drinks.

  The place was busy. Gabriel scanned the crowd. All the usual faces were there. Businessmen, politicians, sportsmen. Johnny Franco and his cronies had taken their usual table near the front. The man himself-tall, gangly, mid-forties, wearing a pinstriped suit-sat with his back to the room, nonchalantly exchanging conversation with a man Gabriel didn't recognize. But his men weren't so relaxed. There were at least five of them clustered around the table, each of them covering Johnny from a different angle, their hands nervously resting inside their jackets, just in case they needed to produce their weapons in a hurry. Gabriel thought they looked jumpy. He wondered if they were expecting something to go down.

  Taking another draw on his cigarette, Gabriel wound his way through the tables toward the bar.

  "Usual please, Joe."

  "Coming right up, Mr. Cross."

  Gabriel lowered himself onto a bar stool and watched the burly barman slosh a measure of bourbon into a tumbler. He slid it across the lacquered bar with a smile. Gabriel nodded his appreciation and dropped a handful of coins into the other man's hand. Then, snatching up the glass, he downed the whisky in one quick motion and dropped the empty vessel back on the bar with a clink.

  On stage, the performance had come to an end and had been met with a general apathy from the audience. Most of them weren't there to see the women. They were there to drink and do business. For some of them, of course, women were their business, but that was another matter altogether, and not something that Gabriel liked to dwell on for very long. Celeste was up next, however. Celeste always turned heads. Celeste was the jewel in Joe's crown, and everyone there knew it.

  The lights dimmed. A hush rippled across the gathered audience. Someone smashed a glass across the other side of the room, and Gabriel could hear the tinkling fragments as they scattered to the floor. Joe placed another shot of bourbon by his elbow.

  There was a mechanical grinding, the sound of gears choking and a chain being wound tightly around a barrel. Three enormous panels rose up from the stage, forming a petal-like arrangement behind the microphone stand. They were disk-shaped, and comprised of delicate iron fretwork and colored glass. Music stirred, slow and soulful, echoing around the cavernous interior of the underground club, the musicians hidden behind the stage or else somehow out of sight, ghosts murmuring sadly to the living. The glass panels began to turn, slowly and inexorably, like enormous multicolored wheels, cogs in some vast, unusual machine. Lights blinked on behind them, flooding the stage with dancing rays in reds, blues, pinks, and greens. And then, as if seeping from the ground like an ethereal puff of smoke, Celeste appeared, rising up through the center of the stage on a small wooden platform. She stepped forward toward the microphone.

  She was wearing a red dress that fell just above the knee and accentuated her shock of auburn hair. Her lips were bright with crimson gloss, and her hands and forearms were covered in long, sensuous silk gloves. She reached out and took the microphone, silhouetted against the bright lights, and brought it closer to her parted lips. And then she sang, and not one person in the club stirred from their seat.

  Gabriel felt a surge of desire. He watched her as she swayed on the spot, moving slowly with the rise and fall of the music. He'd known her sway in different ways; longed for her to sway that way again. And her voice ... It was sultry and pure, knowing and innocent, dark and forgiving; it was life, in all its manifest glory. The words meant nothing. She could have been singing about anything at all. But the sound of her voice was like a portal to her soul, and Gabriel knew that he would never, ever find another woman like her in this world.

  He reached for his drink and gulped it down. All thoughts of the previous evening were lost, banished by the ache he felt for this woman and the sound of her voice. It was a curse, and he knew it. It would be his downfall. Celeste was his Achilles' heel. He played a game with her; let her think that he was something he was not, feigned disinterest. But truthfully, he was so very much in love with her that he knew he would do whatever she wanted. Knew he would-

  The loud report of a gun firing echoed around the enclosed space. A woman screamed. Gabriel spun around on his seat to see a group of figures standing at the foot of the stairs, half-hidden in shadow. The music stopped abruptly.

  Gabriel shifted nervously on his seat. Was this what Johnny Franco's goons had been expecting? He tried to weigh up the situation. There were five of the newcomers. Two of them were huge, wrapped in long black overcoats and wearing hats. They stood motionless at the back, near the bottom of the stairs, as if waiting for permission to move. Two more were smaller men, each clutching pistols in their fists. The one on the right brandished a smoking barrel; he had evidently fired the initial warning shot. Between these two stood a thin, gangly man in an immaculate evening suit. His hands were steepled before his chest and his head was slightly bowed, as if in thought or prayer. Everyone in the room-including Gabriel-seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Even Johnny Franco, who Gabriel imagined was bristling inside, had maintained his cool, and was evidently biding his time, waiting to see what move the intruders would make next.

  The moment stretched. Then, finally, the figure came to life, stepping forward so that Gabriel could just make out his face in the stillshimmering lights from the stage. His expression was serene, as if he were enjoying the interlude he had created. Nevertheless, Gabriel felt his hackles rising. There was something about this man, about the manner in which he carried himself, that spoke of violence and danger.

  The man turned his head to survey the crowd, and Gabriel noted that the uppermost half of his left ear was missing. He didn't know who the man was, or who he purported to work for, but he had a notion. The Roman. Only the Roman would have the audacity to pull a stunt like this.

  When the mobster finally addressed the gathered audience, it was with a soft, deliberate voice that sent shivers coursing down Gabriel's spine. "I apologize for the disturbance, ladies and gentlemen." He paused, as if carefully weighing his next words. "We will not detain you for very long. We have simply come to escort the lady from the premises, and then we'll allow you all to carry on with your evening." Gabriel felt his jaw clench as he realized that the man was indicating the stage-and, therefore, Celeste. What could these mob men possibly want with her?

  The two goons on either side of the speaker-the men with guns-stepped forward. That was enough for Johnny Franco. With a bellow of rage he leapt out of his seat, accompanied by his small army of bodyguards and fellow crooks, and swung around to face the newcomers, brandishing a handgun boldly before him. "Now, I don't know who the hell you guys think you are, but this is my club, and I'm gonna give you one chance to quit before it starts getting messy."

  Gabriel took the opportunity to glance over at Celeste, who was still hanging on to the microphone stand, clearly distressed, unsure how things were going to play out. He wanted to go to her. He needed to get her out of there. But he didn't want to give the crooks any more reason to start a firefight in such a confined space. He needed to wait for his moment. His hand went to his pocket, clasped around the butt of his service revolver. He felt a spike of adrenaline. And then, just as suddenly, he felt himself jerked back into the war.

  Explosions flared before his eyes, scattering the dead that lay heaped on the muddy banks of the abandoned trenches. He could hear the whistle of projectiles swarming down on their position; see his friend, Olsen, with a hole in his skull the size of a human fist, his tin helmet spinning on the ground like a dropped coin. He took a deep breath, squeezed his
eyes shut. When he peeled them open again, the moment had passed. But Johnny Franco was lying on the ground, dead, a bullet through his heart, and everyone was screaming.

  Gabriel leapt into action. He whipped his weapon out from his pocket and swung it round, drawing a bead on the nearest goon. Almost without thinking about it he squeezed the trigger and let off a shot, which whistled with deadly accuracy, catching the mobster in the temple and spattering brain matter across the wall. The man's body slumped in a heap on the tiles, and Gabriel didn't wait to see how his comrades would react. He turned and ran for the stage, dimly aware of the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire chewing up the bar in his wake.

  Celeste was staring at him in blunt shock. "You ... you-"

  Gabriel grabbed her by the shoulder. "Get down!" The command was uncompromising, and she did as he said, dropping to the stage just as the whole place ignited in a storm of bullets. Gabriel hit the wooden boards beside her and then rolled, keeping his weapon pointed at the intruders. He wasn't about to let them take Celeste, whatever the reason.

  The thin man with the scarred ear had disappeared, and now the two hulking giants were lumbering forward, slapping people out of the way in an attempt to get through to Johnny Franco's guys, who were showering them with bullets, to little or no effect. Relentless, the looming figures stomped forward in the dimly lit bar, single-minded, resolute.

  The other goon, the one who had originally fired the warning shot when they'd first stormed the club, was coming after Gabriel and Celeste. And behind him, Gabriel could see more of them flooding down the staircase, blindly firing their guns into the sea of seething shadows; the clientele of the club, desperately trying to escape. It was turning into a massacre.

  Gabriel raised his head just enough to squeeze off a shot, but his aim was wide and he missed the goon. A moment later the mobster replied with a spray from a submachine gun, which he was wearing on a strap around his neck. The glass panels behind Gabriel and Celeste exploded in a hail of colored fragments, and Gabriel felt glass embed itself in his back. He gasped with pain. But it was better than a bullet. He glanced at Celeste and then rolled again, crunching broken glass as he moved to the other side of the stage, coming up on one elbow and letting off another shot from his revolver. This time he caught the man in the throat, and the goon's head snapped back as his larynx was ripped out in a gobbet of soft flesh. Blood fountained into the air as he went down, his finger still depressed on the trigger of the tommy gun, spraying the floor with hot lead.