New York Night

by Leather, Stephen

  Nightingale had the taxi drop him close to Gramercy Park. He lit a cigarette as the taxi drove off. The park was a large square surrounded by townhouses. There was a metal gate across the entrance. He pushed it but it was locked. ‘It’s private,’ said a woman in a long coat who had just lit a cigarette. ‘You have to have a key.’

  ‘A key? Are you serious?’

  The woman waved her cigarette at the townhouses overlooking the park. ‘It’s for the people who live around it,’ she said. ‘They pay almost ten grand a year for the privilege. There are fewer than four hundred keys, all of them numbered.’

  ‘Sounds like a prison,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ said the woman. ‘You’re not allowed to drink alcohol, smoke, ride a bike, walk your dog, kick a ball, throw a Frisbee or feed the squirrels.’

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Walk. I think you can sit but I’m not sure.’

  Nightingale chuckled. ‘You live here?’

  ‘I work in that building over there.’ She pointed at one of the townhouses. ‘I’m a housekeeper. My boss has a key but as I want to smoke there’s no point. You’re not from around here?’

  ‘England. But just doing some consultancy work for a client. So this is the East Village?’

  ‘Everything from here to the Lower East Side and across to the river. Everything east of Broadway to the river, between Houston Street and 14th Street. It used to be all Lower East Side until the hippies moved in during the Sixties. Then it became the birth place of punk rock, they say.’

  ‘Do they now?’

  ‘Harry Potter lives around here. I’ve seen him a few times.’

  ‘You know Harry Potter’s a fictional character?’

  She laughed. ‘Daniel Radcliffe. The actor. And James Bond.’

  ‘Sean Connery?’

  She shook her head. ‘Another Daniel. Daniel Craig.’

  ‘Ah, you see, there’s only one true James Bond and that’s Connery.’

  ‘And Lady Gaga. Madonna.’

  ‘Neither of whom could ever play Bond,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You’re a funny guy,’ said the woman. She held out her hand. ‘Tracey,’ she said.

  ‘Jack,’ said Nightingale. They shook hands.

  ‘So where are the happening places around here?’ he asked.

  ‘You want to bump into Lady Gaga?’

  ‘Just wondered what people did here for fun.’

  ‘Fun? Well, there’s bars. Restaurants. Still a fair number of live music venues. ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘Safe?’

  ‘Much crime. Violence.’

  ‘Exactly what sort of consulting are you involved in, Jack?’

  Nightingale flashed her what he hoped was his most boyish smile. ‘The client’s thinking of moving to New York and he’s asked me to check out a few areas for him.’

  ‘Businessman?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Rich?’

  ‘Not short of a bob or two.’

  ‘I have no idea what that means.’

  ‘He’s got money.’

  ‘Then maybe think of the Upper West Side. As close to the park as you can afford. This area is still coming up but it has a few rough edges still.’

  ‘But it’s quiet, generally.’ He waved at the park. ‘I mean, this looks great.’

  ‘There were cops and sirens last night. East 7th Street. Bar fight, the papers said. A big one.’

  ‘That happens a lot?’

  ‘Not really. But your client would find it quieter on the Upper West Side.’ She took a final drag on her cigarette and flicked what was left into the garden. ‘Back to the coal face,’ she said. ‘Nice meeting you, Jack.’

  ‘And you….’

  ‘Tracey,’ she finished for him.

  He grinned. ‘I knew that,’ he said, but she was right, he had forgotten her name. She was already walking away.

  Nightingale finished the rest of his cigarette as he walked to East 7th Street. The bar was easy enough to spot. Two men in green overalls were replacing a window and the door looked as if it had been hacked with an axe. Nightingale went in. A number of broken chairs and stools had been stacked against a back wall. Several framed posters had been smashed and they had been taken down and placed by the door. There was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a ponytail moving bottles away from a cracked mirror.

  ‘That’s seven years bad luck for a start,’ said Nightingale. ‘Are you open?’

  ‘So long as you don’t mind the noise,’ said the man. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Beer’ll be great. Whatever you recommend.’

  The barman filled a glass with draught beer and put it down in front of Nightingale. ‘It’s a local craft beer. Not as warm as you English like it, I know, but it’s got a good flavour.’

  Nightingale took a sip and nodded his approval. ‘If you like that, you should drop by on Tuesday night,’ said the barman. ‘For ten bucks you can sample every brew on tap.’

  ‘I might take you up on that,’ said Nightingale. He nodded at the broken mirror. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘A bar room brawl. Just like the cliché. Chairs and fists flying.’

  ‘Over what?’

  The barman shrugged. ‘Over nothing. A few kids who didn’t like being carded.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘One of them was a girl and she looked real young. So I politely asked to see her ID. I said if she’s underage she can have a mocktail or whatever but she says she wants tequila. I say she can have a tequila when she shows me her ID. Then the guy who she was with, who wasn’t much older, jumps over the bar and grabs a bottle.’

  ‘Jumped over? Literally, you mean?’

  ‘It was like that street jumping thing the kids do these days. Parkor. He just jumped over, grabbed the bottle and three glasses and jumped back. Then he pours them shots, cool as you like.’

  ‘So there were three of them?’

  The barman nodded. ‘I said I’d call the cops and they said call them. There was no point, calling cops out for underage drinking, they’ve got other priorities, right. So I yell at them to get the hell out of my bar. A couple of my regulars came over to back me up. Big guys, they’re both into mixed martial arts. Cage fighters. They grabbed the guy and he laughs and they flew through the air. I mean flew. One came over the bar and hit the mirror, the other hit the wall by the door. The little guy threw him twenty feet. You tell me, how does a scrawny teenager do that? That’s when I picked up the phone to call the cops but the girl grabbed it out of my hand.’ He held up his left hand which was bruised and scraped. ‘Her hands were tiny but she had a grip like a vice. She twisted my arm and almost broke it. And she crushed my phone.’

  ‘Crushed it. How?’

  ‘With her hand.’ He reached under the bar and pulled out a cellphone. The screen was cracked and there were pieces of the casing missing. ‘She just squeezed it and then tossed it away.’

  He gave it to Nightingale. ‘With her hand? She didn’t stamp on it.’

  ‘She was about five feet six and looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.’

  ‘So you didn’t call the cops?’

  The barman laughed harshly. ‘I didn’t get the chance. She pulled me over the bar. Pulled me, like I weighed nothing and I was twice her size. Then she threw me against the wall there.’ He pointed at the wall behind Nightingale and he turned to look. There was a dent in the wooden panelling. ‘My head did that.’

  ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Three. Two guys and the girl.’

  Nightingale sipped his beer. ‘The cops came eventually, right?’

  ‘A couple of the customers called 911. But by the time they got there the kids had trashed the bar. They took five of them to hospital. Big guys, all of them. The kids didn’t even break a sweat.’

  Nightingale reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph of Matt Donaldson. ‘Was this one of them?’

&
nbsp; The barman took the picture and his eyes widened. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘That’s one of them, yeah?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a journalist,’ said Nightingale, quickly deciding that the lie was worth the risk. ‘This guy attacked some cops a few days ago.’

  ‘Who is he? You need to tell the cops because all we could do was to give them a description.’

  ‘His name’s Matt Donaldson.’

  The barman held up the picture. ‘Can I keep this?’

  ‘No need,’ said Nightingale. ‘The cops already have his picture. Check on line, Matt Donaldson. He’s wanted in connection with the murder of a girl called Kate Walker.’

  The barman nodded and handed back the photograph. ‘You’re a journalist?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘I’m researching a story on teens gone bad,’ he said. ‘The three who were here. Had you seen them before?’

  The barman shook his head. ‘We don’t tend to get kids coming in, it’s not their thing.’

  Nightingale finished his beer, put a ten dollar bill on the bar and slid off his stool. ‘Hopefully they won’t be back,’ he said.

  ‘Can I tell the cops your name?’

  ‘Rob Taggart,’ lied Nightingale. ‘But at the moment I know as little as you do.’ He headed outside and lit a cigarette.

  CHAPTER 40

  Nightingale was standing by the entrance to Gramercy Park when Cheryl Perez drove up. She wound down the window. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘They were here. All three of them.’

  ‘Shit. When.’

  ‘Last night. They smashed up a bar.’

  Perez cursed under her breath. ‘Get in,’ she said.

  Nightingale climbed in. ‘They put some cage fighters in hospital.’

  ‘What are they playing at?’ asked Perez.

  ‘They’re having fun, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Fun? What do you mean?’

  ‘They’re demons, from Hell. This is a playground for them. They’re stronger than us, they’re faster. They can do pretty much what they want.’ He sighed. ‘This is getting out of control.’

  ‘So what do we do? Tell the cops?’

  ‘Tell the cops what? That three demons from Hell are now in human form and they’re wreaking havoc? One, the cops will think we’re mad. Two, what can they do about it? You saw what Donaldson did to a SWAT team.’

  ‘So they can’t be killed, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Not by the likes of us, no.’

  ‘What about silver bullets?’

  ‘That’s werewolves.’

  ‘A stake through the heart?’

  ‘That’s vampires. You’re not getting this, are you? They’re not physical monsters, they’re devils. The evil equivalent of angels. You can’t kill them.’

  ‘So we’re back to exorcisms, right?’

  ‘No, because these aren’t possessions. They were invited in. That’s why they used the sigils. An exorcism won’t get rid of an invited devil.’

  ‘So what then? What can we do?’

  ‘You won’t like it,’ said Nightingale. ‘But right now, we need to go somewhere.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A shop.’ He waved ahead. ‘Two blocks down then take a right.’

  It took less than half an hour to get to Alchemy Arts Supplies. They parked outside the building and Nightingale took Perez up the stairs to the second floor. ‘What on earth is this place?’ she asked as she surveyed the rows of shelving.

  ‘It’s like Office Depot or Staples, but instead of office supplies they sell stuff for people interested in Wicca and witchcraft and the darker stuff.’

  ‘The darker stuff?’

  ‘People talk about white magic and black magic but really it’s all just magic. It’s what you use it for that defines it. Like guns. A cop carrying a gun means one thing. A drug dealer or an armed robber with a gun is something else.’

  ‘And why are we here? You want to buy a magic wand? That’s your plan?’

  Wind was standing behind the register and she smiled in recognition. He nodded at her. ‘Need any help?’ she asked.

  ‘Just browsing.’

  ‘You know where I am,’ she said.

  Nightingale took Perez along to the shelves that contained the branches and twigs. He ran his hands through them and selected a couple of holly branches, one of cedar.

  ‘You said a stake through the heart wouldn’t work,’ said Perez. ‘And neither will silver bullets.’

  ‘I said they weren’t vampires or werewolves,’ said Nightingale. ‘What they are is regular people like you and me who’ve been taken over by devils.’ He held up the branches he had selected. ‘Holly has been used for centuries to guard against evil, but it’s a strong wood, too. Unlikely to break. Cedar also protects against evil.’

  ‘You believe that?’ asked Perez.

  Nightingale searched through the branches and pulled out a yew branch, as thick as his wrist.’ It doesn’t matter whether I believe in it or not, what matters is whether or not it works. But yes, I believe.’ He held up the yew branch. ‘Yew has long been known as the wood of death. There are yew trees in many British churchyards and in many cases they were their before the churches.’

  ‘So you can stab these devils with wooden stakes?’

  Nightingale didn’t answer. He walked away and she followed him down the aisle and along to the display case that contained the consecrated items. She looked at the bottles of salt, water and various herbs, and squinted at the small cards that said when the items had been blessed, and by whom.

  ‘So all this gear has been blessed by priests?’

  ‘Sure. You’re a Catholic, you were baptised, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That’s you being blessed with holy water. All these things have been blessed in the same way. The strength of the blessing depends on when it was done and who by and under what circumstances. Paying for it isn’t the best way, obviously, but sometimes beggars can’t be choosers.’ He pointed at the register. ‘Do me a favour and ask Wind to come and unlock the cabinet.’

  ‘Wind?”

  ‘That’s her name.’

  Perez went over to the cash register and returned with Wind. She opened the cabinet with a brass key and Nightingale showed her what he wanted.

  Perez waited until Wind had relocked the cabinet and gone back to her post before speaking. ‘You’re serious about this? Holy water and consecrated salt.’

  ‘You believe in baptism? Well this is the same principle. Devils can’t deal with Holy Water. Or anything consecrated.’

  ‘So you attack them with Holy Water and the devils go back to where they came from?’

  Nightingale looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s more complicated than that, unfortunately.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘Like I said in the car, you won’t like it.’

  ‘What I don’t like is the way you keep things from me,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.

  He put up his hands as if warding off an attack. ‘Holy Water – or anything consecrated – means you can get in close. If it’s on a bullet they’ll have trouble avoiding it. Soak a stake in it and you can stab them with the stake. But that in itself won’t make the devil leave. You have to kill the host.’

  ‘The host?’

  ‘The body they’re in. You shoot them with bullets that have been blessed. That means the bullets will hit the target. You have to kill the body before the devil will leave.’

  ‘So Dee-anne. Matt. Steve. They have to die, that’s what you’re telling me?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘They’re dead already. Their souls have moved on and they can’t ever come back. The devils have taken over their bodies. If the devils leave, the bodies are dead.’

  ‘Jack, you can’t kill them.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, Cheryl. They’re dead already.’

  ‘Except they’
re clearly not. They’re walking around, they’re talking, they’re breathing. If you kill them, then they’re dead. And you’ll be held responsible.’

  ‘I’m not planning to go public, obviously.’

  ‘You’re planning on murdering three people? And by telling me you’re making me an accessory before the fact.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you. I’ll handle it.’

  She looked at the sticks he was holding. ‘And you’re planning to use those?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe. At the moment I’m just weighing up my options.’

  ‘You’re going to make them into stakes and stab them in the heart? I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.’

  ‘We’re not having a conversation,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’re interrogating me and I’m trying not to tell you too much. It’s not your problem.’

  ‘You’re going to do it on your own? Take on all three of them yourself?’

  ‘I don’t see I’ve any choice.’

  ‘You can’t do it yourself, and you know it.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair to involve you. I’m used to this sort of thing. You’re not.’

  ‘Oh I see. You bring me here to stock up on murder weapons but you’re not involving me.’

  ‘To be fair, they’re just branches at the moment.’

  ‘We need to discuss this.’

  ‘More than happy to. But not here, obviously.’

  Perez looked at her watch. ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ll cook for you. Nothing special, pasta.’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘It’s a date.’

  ‘No, it’s not a date. It’s pasta. And wine if you’re lucky.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Perez’s apartment was in the basement of a brownstone building in a tree-lined avenue on the Upper East Side. She had found a parking space a short walk away. Nightingale carried the bags containing his purchases from Alchemy Arts Supplies. Wind had wrapped the branches up in brown paper and tied the packages with string and he had them tucked under his arm. Perez unlocked the door and took Nightingale through to a low-ceiling kitchen with a small circular table at one end. ‘Drop your stuff on the table,’ she said, taking off her coat. Nightingale put his packages on one of the chairs around the table. Perez unclipped her hair and shook it free, then took his coat and hung it up with hers before opening her fridge. ‘Wine or beer?’ she asked.