Grit & Shadows Boxed Set: Urban Fantasy and Horror Collection: Volumes 1 - 3

by J. D. Brink

  Pulling myself up isn’t that hard, though the armored vest and its chest-mounted surprises do make for a tougher climb. They catch on the rail and I’m afraid they’ll go off as I roll over the edge and onto the floor.

  Romero claps for me.

  “A clown to make me laugh this evening?” he asks. “On my wife’s opening night, no less?”

  The question becomes a roar at the end, followed through with a stiff kick to my ribs. With the armor, I barely feel it. Then he tries again and I grab the back of his leg. He’s hopping there as I’m trying to get up. From a distance, it probably does look like some poor clown act.

  His foot slips away from me and he pitches forward with a strong punch to my face.

  That one, I feel.

  “Who sent you?” he growls, fists balled up and ready for the next round.

  “That one,” I say, still on my ass, pointing to the dead guy in the next chair. “And that other one over there.”

  When he turns to see the conspiratory corpses, I jump.

  It’s time for my last move. The box is real. No sense in trying anything else. Time to play my last card, the ace up my sleeve. My cheat. My death card.

  Romero spares only a second to glance at the dead mobster behind him, but by the time he’s turned back to me, I’m wrapping him in a bear hug. Our faces are so close we could kiss. Time for my surprise.

  I spare only an instant to reflect on what a stupid gamble this is, how crazy the logic, and then I detonate before his witch charm can sabotage me further.

  The mines on my chest explode. Six little tarts of fire, plastique, and shrapnel.

  Waking in a hospital is a total surprise for me. I didn’t expect to wake up at all.

  Everything is a sterile shade of white. There are features, ceiling tiles and bed rails, a transparent sack hanging from an iron pole, but it all comes off as white to me. I hear a noise, a fine, continuous tone ringing in my ears, but nothing else. My face stings. My chest hurts. But I’m not dead.

  I’m not dead.

  The poison should have killed me. If the miniature mines didn’t do it, the poison should have. Unless my nonsensical theory made sense. Unless my insane calculations beat the odds.

  My gamble was this: That the machine bends the rules but can’t break them. If something is a sure thing, the machine can’t un-sure it. It has to happen somehow.

  Six anti-personnel mines exploding in a burst of point-blank shrapnel, bear hugged against the man who supposedly couldn’t die. And if that wasn’t enough, I had taken the poison. I was going to die. I was the sure thing. Chance of death: one hundred percent. So even if the magic box wanted to bend the rules so that Romero wasn’t the one to die in that situation, it couldn’t. Had I left one percent wiggle room for it to deflect, it might have decided, Well, someone has to die, so I say it’s the asshole known as Snake Eyes. But Snake Eyes had already rolled his double ones. He was already dead. Even if the mines hadn’t gone off at all, the venom was racing around my veins, fatally vandalizing my body from the inside. I was already guaranteed to die from poisoning. A sure thing. A done deal.

  Therefore, when the mines went off and offered up another serving of death, there was no one else to deal it to. My hand was already full. No matter how hard it might try to bend the probability, Romero had to take his cards, his share of the odds. He had to die too.

  “But the poison,” I hear myself mumble. “I’m not dead.”

  My employers got me out. That was the deal. They must have gotten me out and dosed me with the antidote before the cops could get me.

  I had gone all-in ,but snatched back my pile of chips at the last second.

  “You’re not dead,” says a strained voice to my left. “And neither am I.”

  My head turns, slowly. The tape, gauze, and dried blood on my face resists the movement and something small and wet splits back open as I do so.

  Romero lies in the next bed. He looks worse than I feel. I can’t see much from here, but he definitely didn’t come out unscathed.

  “Missed all my vital organs,” he tells me. That smirk comes back over his face, though painfully. “You did a number on my guts, though. Tore them up pretty good. Going to need bilateral shoulder surgery, they tell me. But lungs, heart? Still working.”

  “Lucky bastard,” I groan, allowing my head to drop back again.

  We both listen to the beeps and hums of hospital equipment for a minute. I run through my head the likelihood of leaping out of the bed to defend myself, should I need to.

  Not too goddamned likely.

  “Why ain’t I dead?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I did overhear the nurses a bit, though. Sounded like they found the poison in your bloodstream and treated it. Sounds like your kidneys took a beating, but... Here you are. Might also be that, when you wrapped me up, you got inside the field. It might have changed your luck, too.”

  “And how is it that I’ve come to share a room with you?”

  “At my request,” he says. “I have some pull here. I own the place.”

  “High roller,” I mumble, not sure what else to say. An odd situation, to say the least, and I’m not sure what to make of it.

  That’s when Mrs. Romero comes in. Her heels click across the tile. She passes by my bed, a tall, thin blonde in a red dress. Had to miss in the stark white haze. She pauses when she finds me awake.

  “Oh, thank God you made it,” she says, rushing over and taking my hand. She drops it pretty fast, though, probably thinking the expression on my face is a sign of physical pain.

  Mrs. slides over to Mr. and plants a kiss on his cheek. “This is the man who saved your life?” she asks.

  “It is,” Romero says.

  It must be the drugs. Or the last few tendrils of venom in my veins. This makes no sense at all.

  “In fact, I was just about to offer the man a job,” he says.

  “You can’t be serious,” I grumble.

  “I am.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “You’re a resourceful man. I make a habit of stacking the deck, and having you on my side would improve the odds even further in my favor.”

  Disbelief gets lodged in my throat.

  “What would I do?” My field of vision is nothing but white-tiled ceiling. I can’t bring myself to look at either of them.

  “Bodyguard, mostly.”

  “Ironic,” I say.

  “Very. But irony is my business partner and long-time companion. You could also run a few other bad men out of business for me. I believe you’ve taken care of two of them already.”

  Hmm.

  “I believe I have.”

  “I’d say your luck’s turning then, wouldn’t you?”

  I guess it is, but I don’t answer.

  I’m bound to wake up dead one day. Of course, that’s silly, thinking he’d take me peacefully in my sleep. More likely, two in the back of the head, fully awake. Or one in each eye, where I can see them coming. Holes punched in the little dots of my tattoos. But if the Gambler is willing to give old Snake Eyes another roll of the dice, who am I to argue?

  Part Five

  Moondance

  Moondance

  Even among the sweaty bodies, the overdose of perfume and cologne, and the stink of cigarettes, I can still smell the Irishman’s pipe smoke. There is something sweet about it, like orange peel and cinnamon. To be honest, it’s a welcome bloom in the wretched bouquet of the Friday night crowd. Out to get drunk at the very least, and lucky if they can manage it. That’s why he’s come here, no doubt. He knows how to play the odds, and he likes easy sport. And smoking that stupid pipe of his makes him easy prey—for me.

  I follow my nose and my instincts. And with the moon nearly full, I’m at the top of my game.

  He’s at the bar, pawing at a flapper in a flowery headband. Some fashions just won’t die, I guess.

  That goes for his suit, too. Raincoats and fedoras are all the rage today, not that I’m
some department store window clerk. But Red’s still sporting duds from the Old Country: dark green, three-piece suit; a bowler cocked on his high-running forehead; and an ornate, serpentine pipe clenched in his teeth. His ginger beard is trimmed neat, at least. Archaic though his look may be, the flapper is going for it. Poor dame ain’t got the sense to know a predator when she sees one. Not that he’d hurt the girl, but a guy like him… She might wake up and find her granny’s heirlooms are suddenly missing, part of his collection stashed away where hands may never find them.

  I slide up on the other side of the girl and grin wolfishly over her shoulder. The Irishman’s smile fades out fast, as does some of his rosy color. The flapper doesn’t notice, she just keeps talking. I can smell the scotch he’s been feeding her.

  “Excuse me,” I say, holding my private dick badge over her shoulder. She gets a glimpse at it, then eyeballs the Irishman and slinks away.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asks venomously. “I’m trying to have a good time, here.”

  “I noticed,” I say, pocketing my credentials. “And you can get right back to stalking divorcées, after you give it over.”

  “Give what over?”

  I cock a weary eyebrow. “Come on, Red. The Crone sent me. She knows what you found. And I’m not saying it’s fair that she takes it, but fair don’t pay the bills, and I work for a living. Besides, you’ll find another.”

  I can tell by the look on his face that he’s sizing me up. He’s wondering if he could he outrun me.

  The answer is, no, he couldn’t.

  Could he put up a fight? Certainly not. Red’s known for his luck, but it ain’t that good.

  Maybe he can bribe me?

  “You know, I’ve got deep pockets.” He flashes me an uneasy grin and produces a shiny gold coin from nowhere. He clinks it hard onto the bar with one stubby finger. “Real deep.” A second from the same hand. A third. “How much could the Crone possibly be paying you?”

  “Like I said, I work for a living. Can’t claim to be a professional if everyone can just buy you off the job.”

  He opens his hand and spills four more onto the counter. The bartender’s taken notice now, as has the big mook standing behind the Irishman. Guy looks like he might be a veteran: shorthair, no neck, chip on his shoulder.

  The gleam in Red’s eyes turns sly. “What’s the date today?” he asks. “Fairly bright out there tonight, eh? But the moon, I fear, she ain’t full quite yet…”

  He stands backward off his stool, stumbling into the neckless soldier-boy. Swooping the bowler from his brow, Red goes into a little dance and spins the hat in his hand. “Gentlemen! And maybe even some of you ladies. This man is bothering me. The gold on the bar goes to whomever can put a collar on this dog. And double it if he has to limp home!”

  With that, the Irishman yanks a fistful of coins from his round little hat and throws them right at me. The soldier’s fist quickly follows, and someone kicks my left knee out from under me.

  The jovial bar scene erupts into a brawl and the Irishman is well gone by the time it’s over.

  The next day, I meet the Crone for coffee. The shop she frequents is a classy one, boasting its own superior roast. I must admit, they’ve got something special brewing in that pot of joe. The smell of it overpowers even the greasy sizzle of bacon in my sensitive snout.

  But there’s something else in the air here, too, and I can’t quite place it…

  Selene is seated in the dead center of the place, set up at a circular table barely big enough for two. The Crone, despite her professional moniker, appears to be a young woman in her perpetual twenties. Her luscious black hair curls like an overgrown thorn bush. Her eyes and lips are a powerful shade of violet. And while her black dress covers her pale flesh well, the fit is seductively tight. As fashion goes, she’s starting her own trend with that one.

  I plop into the opposite chair and she glances up from stirring her coffee. Her lilac perfume slaps me in the face, but that isn’t the scent I’m most concerned about. Our table is uniquely adorned with a small porcelain vase. Standing tall from within is a sturdy green stem lined with purple flowers. It was their scent I picked up coming in and it stings my nostrils even more than the pot of java.

  “Wolfsbane?” I say. “You shouldn’t have.”

  Her long fingers cross the table and caress my hand. “I knew it was your time of the month, Lawrence, and didn’t want you to get cranky. Besides, they match my color palette today.”

  “How thoughtful.” Aside from being poisonous, the flowers also restrict my talents. Now that I’m so close, it’s like the pollen is invading my body. I taste the stuff and feel like I’ve been brought low by severe allergies.

  “That’s a nice shiner you’ve got there,” she goes on. “You look a little worse for wear, today.”

  “I am a bit sore,” I admit. “But I’m still on the job.”

  She tsks her tongue. “I’m beginning to lose faith in you.”

  “Don’t. I always close the deal, Selene, and I’ll close this one. Tonight’s the night.”

  “You sure he’s still in town?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  It’s part of the dance, a game we’re far too old for. I know she keeps her own tabs, maybe even some high-level hocus pocus, but she’s not as good as I am. Selene has her specialties, I have mine.

  I nod toward a flyer tacked to the café bulletin board. “Street fair tonight, and our boy likes to socialize. He’ll be there.”

  “I hope so, Lawrence,” she says, loudly sipping from her cup of joe. “A woman in my profession can ruin a reputation rather easily, even one as good as yours. Speaking of which…” She looks past me. I turn to see a skinny, balding man with his pants hiked up way too far, just coming in. He surveys the place with an anxious, desperate hope in his eyes, crumpling his fedora in sweat hands. “I believe my next appointment has just arrived.”

  “Hair tonic or love potion?” I grumble.

  “Shoo now,” she says, waving the backs of her fingers at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right here, same time. And don’t come in with empty paws, Lawrence.”

  On the way out, I grab her new client’s hand, shake the hell out of it, and pretend to recognize him from an insurance seminar. I tell him how good he looks and ask about his wife. He’s thoroughly confused but obviously flattered, and I feign shock when he says he’s never married. I tell him there’ll be lots of costumed nurses and friendly witches on the street tonight, all looking for a sharp-dressed man to have a drink with. “Tonight’s your night,” I tell him, then walk out.

  I hope I’ve given his confidence a little boost, just enough to ruin the Crone’s business for today.

  The cobblestone lanes are full of people tonight, most of them dressed up. The general theme is short capes and harlequin masks, just fun dress-up stuff, though here and there are costume enthusiasts with more originality. I spy a Little Red Riding Hood showing some leg and it makes me smile.

  There are strings of colorful lanterns, junk food vendors lining the barricaded streets, and plenty of beer bottles in-hand. I smell pilsners and ale, beef kabobs, grilled sausage and onions, and three flavors of Macy’s most popular perfumes.

  This is a stakeout. It may take time, but I’m confident my prey will show up. So I watch from corners for a while, then alternate swimming through the currents, catching tidbits of war stories, ball games, and office gossip. And pickup lines that never work.

  I hear someone pitching such a line and detect the familiar smoke of cinnamon and orange rinds.

  The Irishman’s leaning against the brick face of a local bar. Tonight’s suit is a brighter of shade of green than last night. I’m reminded of a movie from a few years back, like he’s a maître d’ from The Wizard of Oz. He’s talking to a woman in emerald tights with a feather in her cap; a real beauty and a tall drink of water. Way too tall for him. She’s giving him the cold shoulder, but he’s choosing to ignore it.


  Must not have been completely distracted by her, though. By the time I dart around some laughing partygoers, Red’s on the move.

  But no way he’s faster than me. Not tonight.

  So the hunt is on.

  It only takes me a block and a half to catch up, and it’s easy to tangle his feet without losing my own balance. Red goes down onto the cobblestones. The crowd splashes open like stomping into a shallow puddle, everyone jumping away just enough to let us square away our differences. But it’s still thick enough to keep the local flatfoots from getting a good look. I’ll have time to work, but not much.

  The Irishman rolls over rubbing his arms and complaining of pain. I straddle the little man and grab him by his jade-colored necktie.

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” he moans. “It doesn’t belong to her. You call yourself a professional? It’s immoral, Larry. You’re just a mugger for hire.”

  I take pause at his words, just for an instant; there may be some truth to what he says, but I’ve already taken the job.

  Besides: “Morality is a discussion for the academics. I’m more concerned with professional ethics. There’s a difference,” I say, frisking him with my free hand. “But when you really boil it down, Red, I’m just a simple force of nature. The sheep might be off minding its own business, but it still gets eaten when the wolf comes around. And everybody’s got to eat.”

  Hidden in an inside pocket of his sport coat is a tissue carefully folded into a neat little triangle. “This isn’t your hanky, is it?”

  The worry in his eyes answers for him.

  Someone bumps into me from behind. And they smell like they’ve just rolled out of the gutter.

  At first, I assume it’s just an accident of the busy street fair. Until a pair of cold hands fumble their way around me, and two more try to grab me by the rain coat. I spin and blindly shove back whoever it is behind me.