The Artful (Shadows of the City)

by Wilbert Stanton

  “Hmm, can’t say I do. Not yet, at least, maybe if I had a couple of drinks?” Toll Troll laughed at his own joke.

  “Hey!” I yelled.

  “So a couple of drinks, huh?” Dodger asked

  “Yeah, something that would make your boy seem downright pretty.”

  “Why are we still talking about this?” I asked, not enjoying the direction of this joke.

  “Okay, we’ll see what we can do!” Dodger pulled me off to the stairs, the mid-day breeze cooling us from above.

  “What were you thinking” I asked.

  “Look at him, man! He’s a drunk. We just gotta get him a bottle.”

  “Jeez, you really want to leg it back to Red’s?”

  He looked around, thinking, hands on his hips, forehead knotted in thought.

  “Dodge?”

  “Nah!” Color seemed to return to his skin for the first time; a slight surge of energy ran through him. He had an idea, and as most of Dodger’s ideas went, it was most likely a bad idea.

  e were topside and out of Red’s territory; this was Dodger’s plan. Unclaimed territories were scavenger hot spots, free rein for scavenging and, of course, killing, with no hope of protection. Not to say that any part of the topside wasn’t dangerous; frankly it all was. But unclaimed territory was the worst of the worst. Unsurprisingly, I was too nervous for words as we stepped into no man’s land, me nursing a hangover and him clearly coming apart at the seams.

  “Maybe we should just leg it back to Red’s?” I offered, cautiously walking at his side. All my previous anger toward him had vanished, replaced by doubt and fear.

  “Trekking it back would lose us the rest of the day, and, honestly, I’m not feeling that great.” As if to solidify his point, he coughed thoroughly into the crook of his arm.

  “You think it’s whatever Just Stan stuck you with?”

  “Must be. I never felt this horrible in my life. Whatever. We just gotta stick it out. I know an old bar around here, never totally licked clean, or it was, but scavengers like to keep it used, for drinking and trading.”

  “You think that’s a good idea, messing with scavengers?”

  “Never a good idea, but I don’t plan on them seeing us, do you?”

  I shook my head and followed, pulling the hood of my sweater up over my head and adjusting the goggles; wearing all the extra clothing was uncomfortable. Not only did the sun burn our skin and strain our eyes, but encasing ourselves in all the extra material only made us sweat and suffer more. But we had to pick and choose our battles.

  We walked down streets occupied by abandoned cars and silence. Old restaurants and storefronts with broken windows and disheveled furniture showed us glimpses of the world that used to be. I imagined walking into the past, people filling these tombs of time, eating, laughing, and enjoying their lives. The cars driving up and down used streets and the hustle and bustle of life. Now life just seemed to be a cautious thing. We had to cherish each second of it we were allowed, suffering and all. I wondered what it must have been like back then, just being able to go out with no concern for your well-being. These were the pleasures of ignorance we would never afford.

  Dodger took the lead, with rare determination. He was definitely off; I was worried. More often than not, he would break into a fit of coughing, and he just generally looked like every part of him ached. But he wouldn’t complain; that was never an option for him. Instead, he walked on, navigating the maze of streets, using long faded street signs as markers; only once or twice did he backtrack his steps or curse because we had walked in a circle. I stayed quiet at his side, not wanting to confuse him. I had never walked these streets and had nothing to offer. Once again, Dodger was leader.

  More than once, we passed train station entrances, and just as Toll Troll promised, they were blown to bits, cement and debris blocking our entrance into the underground world, of safety and familiarity. Being in this part of the top side made me hesitant. The world felt too huge, my mind spun. I have lived underground too long. The only parts of the top side I normally ventured into were well known to me, the unfamiliarity of this new territory left me feeling claustrophobic and disoriented. It didn’t help matters that there was no easy way to return to the safety of underground; the nearest entrance was now miles away and was barred from us by Toll Troll’s greed. It also shamed me to say, but with Dodger’s confidence taken down a notch, I felt less untouchable.

  “Twist, you okay?” Dodger shook my arm. I hadn’t realized I had stopped walking, lost in my musing. But I desperately wanted to hide my apprehensions and weakness.

  “Yeah, fine… just getting my bearings.”

  “No need; we’re here. The place is down that block. See the markers?” He pointed out a small arrow painted on the side of a dilapidated building. Across the street there was another, and down the block another. They were all hidden from plain sight. But a skilled scavenger or Gutter Punk could easily pick it up. “Keep low; don’t want anyone knowing we’re about.”

  This wasn’t hard to do; abandoned cars lined both sides of the street. He pointed out the bar on the far side, so we crouched down behind a truck, peeking through the car window, waiting for any sign of life. It was times like this where I wished we carried weapons. But we never did. We went into situations only armed with my skill and his charm. Worst case scenario, Dodger was the muscle and had no problem throwing down. But he didn’t believe in mortally hurting someone, he felt there was already too much suffering in the world. I, on the other hand, had a very different opinion. When it came down to my life or someone else’s, I would have no problem, at least that’s how I felt at the time.

  “I don’t think anyone is about, the place is probably locked up tight though. Can you do the lock?” He patted my shoulder, like a father proud to show off his son’s skills.

  “I can try, but how do you know it’s safe?”

  He smiled, and, for a second, the old Dodger returned. “We don’t!”

  He ran out from behind the truck at a low crouch, and I had no choice but to follow. We scurried up to the front, ducking under the window and shimmying over to the door. He reached up and tried the handle. No give. It was locked.

  Dodger ushered me over to the door and indicated with his fingers that he would keep watch. I looked at the lock closely, and my heart fluttered. I knew the type, and it would be a simple twist of the wrist. I dug into my bag for my lock-picking tools, a small case with pins of different sizes and shapes. I studied them for a quick second before picking the two that would do the trick. I placed the pins into the mouth of the lock and gently started to maneuver. In truth, this was something I had picked up and learned with instinct. I tried countless times to teach Dodge, but I had no words to explain how I did it. Like a song, my fingers moved to a silent tune, and my ears picked up every tiny note, every muscle all working together under a masterful conductor, until the final click. I turned the doorknob.

  The bar smelled of smoke and liquor, not stale dust like most of the abandoned places we visited. Dodger was right; this place was definitely still in use. Where its patrons were, I didn’t know. Scavengers kept no regular hours; they would be out and about searching the ruins whenever the itch begged for it. But I knew the more aggressive scavengers took to the streets at night. It was like a methodical game of warfare to them. The spoils went to the most clever and ruthless, and, with those spoils came power and wealth. I hoped any of those who would look to the bar spent their days nursing hangovers. Dodger pushed me in, closing the door behind him.

  The walls were lined with shattered mirrors; shards of glass still scattered about the floor, a couple of dusty tables and overturned chairs laid about. The stools near the bar itself seemed more organized, and there wasn’t a sign of dust on them. The bar wasn’t in its prime, but it was clear of dust and rings of dried water stains while cigarette burns ran up and down its course. The shelves behind the bar were empty, except for broken bottles and an old world cash register. We ca
utiously explored the bar, glass, and garbage crunching under our feet. Our steps seemed deafening, my nerves were on edge, and every time Dodger coughed I thought my heart would explode.

  He walked over behind the bar, inspecting every inch, then knelt down behind it and rummaged through various items. He stood up with a smile on his face and a towel over his shoulder.

  “What’ll it be, Twist?” he asked.

  I looked at him, unwilling to participate in games. He motioned for me to take a seat and continued smiling. Sighing, I obliged. “Um, what’s on the menu?”

  “Well, you’re in luck today! House special.” He pulled up a half-full glass of pickles and slammed it down before me.

  “Are you sure that’s not spoiled?”

  “I don’t think pickles spoil, all the liquid preserves it… so, you know… go ahead.”

  “What?”

  “Try ‘em!” He stared intently at me, motioning toward the jar with his eyes and earnest nod.

  I opened the jar, feeling crusted flakes crumble in my hands as I turned the lid. A strange smell hit me first, but not of rot. It seemed to be the natural smell of pickling. I experimentally squeezed one of the pickles and lifted it from the jar. We both stared at it in fascination.

  “Go on,” he said, nodding a bit closer. I put the tip of my tongue to it first and then took a bite. It was a bit soggy, but nothing harsh. I followed it up with a bigger bite.

  “How is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t think I like pickles. Other than that, I don’t think it’s spoiled. Or maybe it is.”

  “Sweet!” He grabbed one for himself, took a bite, chewed for a bit, then his face dropped and he spit it out. We both laughed. They were disgusting. “What’ll you have to drink?”

  “I’ll have a shot of water!” I said, my mood lightening.

  “Okay, one shot of whiskey, coming up!” He pulled up a bottle of brown liquid; it was more than half full and still covered in some dust.

  “Are you kidding? I can’t drink that! I’m still reeling from last night. Just pack it up and let’s take it to the Toll Troll.”

  “Nonsense. Everyone knows this is the best cure for a hangover.” He fished a dirty cup from behind the counter and wiped it on his pants. “You’re gonna love this. Nothing better than a straight shot of old whiskey!” He put the cup in front of me and filled it halfway with the brown liquid; the smell was already attacking my nose. He looked at me and nodded, once again smiling, enticing me to take the drink. I tilted my head back and poured it straight down my throat. I was still gagging when the door opened and a man walked in.

  He had a scruffy beard and an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. Messy braids dropped down behind his shoulders, most noticeable was the gun tucked into his belt. He scratched at his chin while scrutinizing us. Cigar nodded his head in my direction and carefully took a seat at the end of the bar.

  “I thought you locked the door,” I whispered to Dodge.

  “I thought you did!” he said, much too loud.

  “Is there a problem?” Cigar asked.

  “Only problem here is not enough drinking going on!” Dodger said with a smart laugh. “Know what I mean?”

  Cigar only looked at him with a cold gaze.

  “What’ll you have?” Dodger asked, shrugging his shoulders at me.

  “Whatever he’s having,” Cigar said, pointing a callused finger in my direction.

  “Good choice. Truth be told, it’s the only choice.” Dodger again tried to pull a laugh from Cigar. He stared as Dodger produced another cup and filled it to the rim, pushing it over.

  Dodger took the rag from his shoulder and started wiping down the counter in circular motions. I attempted to keep myself occupied by reading the back of the pickle jar, stealing glances at Cigar with my peripheral vision. He sipped on his drink, slow and methodic, keeping his gaze locked on Dodge and me.

  This wasn’t good. I waited with overwhelming anxiety for Dodger to yell ‘Plan B.’ Would I even be able to open the door before he grabbed me? Maybe I could just full on run for the window and jump through; hopefully my weight would be enough to shatter it. But what of Dodge? No way he could make it out from behind the bar and escape without being caught.

  “Nice day we’re having.” He looked over at Cigar, who nodded and held up his empty glass. Dodger refilled it. “You know, I heard some rumors.”

  “Rumors are good,” Cigar said.

  “Yup, heard about a place not too many days ago. Some diggers found a vault.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, all kinds of stuff in it. Things haven’t been seen since before the great dead.”

  “And where might this place be?”

  Dodger picked up a cup and cleaned it with his towel. “Well, now, you know rumors don’t run for free ‘round here.”

  I took the bottle of whiskey and poured myself another drink. Dodger was pushing his luck. We would be dead men sooner than later.

  Cigar turned his head to the side until his neck cracked, then again to the other side. He reached for one of his guns. I knew my face went pale, my hands began to shake, and the prospect of throwing myself through the glass window seemed more and more inviting. He put the gun on the counter with a noticeable thud, taking care to aim the muzzle at Dodger.

  “Now, now, Fred, we’re all friends here.”

  “Name’s not Fred, and you’re no friend of mine.”

  “And here I invite you into my place of business and offer you my liquor, thinking we shared the bond that comes with supply and demand―”

  “I’m beginning to wonder how you came to own this place. Last I been here, the bartender was a lot older.”

  Dodger slammed a cup down on the counter. Prying the whiskey bottle from my frozen fingers, he poured a drink and chugged it down. “Maybe you don’t want to find out.”

  This made Cigar laugh, a slow chuckle. “You got a set on you, huh? Now why don’t you tell me where this vault is, and pray to God that there’s more value in it than in turning over a couple of Gutter Punks!”

  The game was over. He knew who we were. Frankly, it wasn’t surprising. Dodger and I had made quite the reputation for ourselves, but this, this wasn’t in our favor. And the threat was on the table in the form of a shiny gun.

  Dodger held up his hands in mock surprise. “Ahh, you made us. Fine, maybe we can help each other. I tell you where to find the vault, and you walk away?”

  “I’ll decide on that when I see fit.”

  Dodger looked at me and winked. I knew the look. It meant I had to stay on my toes. After taking a swig of the whiskey, he went through his pockets and produced the lighter I stole at the Empire. I sat on the tip of my stool as he held it out to Cigar, who smiled in turn.

  “Smart boy,” he said, holding out his cigar in Dodger’s direction. Dodger opened the lid and flicked the wheel, causing the flame to spark. As soon as Cigar leaned in close enough to light his cigar, Dodger spit the whiskey at him, and the lighter’s flame in-between ignited the flammable liquid, shooting a hail of fire into Cigar’s face.

  He yelled, clawing at the flames. His beard caught on fire; the smell of burning hair was instant. I used the distraction to my advantage and jumped for the gun before his wild hands could find it, training the muzzle on him before he could regain composure. Dodger and I tensed as he got up, brushing the last of his scorched beard from his face.

  “You boys really made a mistake. What you fixing to do, huh? Shoot me? Look at you, ain’t no man in you! Shaking like a leaf. What makes you think I think you have the balls to shoot me? You got the fear of God in your eyes, but you know what, boy? I ain’t God… I’m the Devil.”

  I gripped the gun tight, my hands shaking, my eyes clenched closed. I would have to kill him; I’d have to shoot. If I closed my eyes tight enough, it wouldn’t be so bad.

  There was a loud bang, followed by the sound of his body crumbling to the floor. For a second, I could feel my blood turn to ice. My leg
s wanted to give out, and the gun in my hands became a million pounds heavier. I had killed him. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even remember pulling the trigger.

  I didn’t. Wait, I really didn’t pull the trigger!

  When I opened my eyes, Dodger was leaning over the counter, holding the bottle of whiskey by the neck, staring down at Cigar, shaking his head in disgust. “Man, that really is strong stuff.” He looked from the bottle to me. “Hey, you better give me that before you hurt someone.”

  I had been holding the gun in front of me, now aimed at the wall, still shaking. For a second I thought I had taken someone’s life. Before, I was certain I could do it if my life depended on it. Now I was horrified. The gun felt so heavy, like something more than just a weapon. Finality.

  Dodger climbed over the counter and eased the gun from my hands, while patting my back. “It’s okay, buddy. How about we see the old Toll Troll and get down underground?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  ou would have thought we had returned Toll Troll’s long lost child, the way he reacted to seeing the bottle of whiskey. He wiped away tears while quickly opening the gate, then rushed us in and closed it behind us. We barely had time to walk in before he snatched the bottle up from Dodger’s hand and started taking long sips. He didn’t thank us, too lost in the taste of his heart’s desire. He only waved us on to the stairs that led to the subway platforms.

  Plenty of people were about, some sleeping on worn out mattresses, others carrying on conversations. A shack was built around an old information booth, its window opened wide with a steep ledge, where a man stood over items on display. They were traders; they kept items of all sorts within their huts. One could find almost anything if asked, and if they didn’t have it, it was only a matter of time before they could procure it for you.