by Anton Marks
“Keeping me happy.”
“As she should, rude bwoy. As she should.”
Spokes turned to motion to the girls behind him.
“My ladies will man this point for the rest of the night and Duncan should reassign yuh to another position. Cool.”
“I’m there,” he said and turned to go.
“Ricky?” Spokes called after him. “Watch yuh head back, rudie.”
Ricky looked back at him quizzically for a moment.
“I always do, Mr. Patterson.”
“Nice guy,” Patra commented on his departure.
“Decent yout, from New Jersey,” Spokes said, opening the door at the same time and switching on the light in the office.
“Give mi a minute sista’s. Make yourself comfortable.”
Immediately Y moved with him, his personal shadow until this was all over, but he ambled over to a door three rooms away. He fished in his pockets for a set of keys and opened up the room. He then disappeared inside, coming out with an aluminum tool box on wheels, overalls slung over his arm, a rugged torch and battery powered lamps. In a moment he was squeezing past her with the stuff.
“Need to keep mi Jasper Conran suit criss, don’t it?” He grinned. Fully in the office, Spokes waited for Y to step in and closed the door behind her.
Bad II the Bone knew how this was going to run and were conversing about trivia as they moved into position. Spokes became background while he changed into his overalls. Suzy laid palms on the girls’ backsides and silently took to her post outside the door. She had now become the first line of defense. Patra and Y quietly watched Spokes prepare his tools, move furniture and then snap on his protective goggles. He twisted the torch in his hand and slapped the headgear firmly on his head, looking like a miner, with hard hat, knee and elbow pads, and gloves.
The promoter rapped on the wall. The sound it made gave away its hollowness. Spokes watched their reaction.
“Prefab ladies. I did feel I would be doing dis soon, suh I made sure it easy to cut through. I haven’t been down here in almost two years but before mi wall it up, I had enough time to plan.” Spokes tapped his temple sagely.
Y wrinkled her nose, a question emerging on her lips.
“How are we going to navigate the darkness without knowing a layout of the caves, even with lanterns?” The question stirred up her dormant fear for enclosed spaces.
Spokes smiled again.
“Don’t fret sista Y. Deh candles that were left by deh original owners still burn, can yuh believe that? Deh Romans knew how to build to last, trust mi. When I light the way I’ll let you come down and see wah gwan.”
“Yeah, now that would be cool,” Patra perked up.
“If we have to,” Y muttered under her breath and nodded.
Spokes hefted another hard plastic case out of the wheelie case - two feet by two feet - with the name Palette emblazoned on both sides with orange and red flames shooting from the letters. Patra and Y looked on quizzically.
“My Ex,” Spoke said, pointing to the name. “Don’t ask. Let’s jus’ say I won’t forget her in a hurry.”
He pulled out the mean looking circular saw and plugged in the lead. Switching it on, it almost protested in his hand at being tethered to the outlet and roared irritably, barring its sixty five titanium carbide teeth.
Spokes grinned with it.
“Dis will only take a minute,” he shouted over the din.
Deacon, two of his best men and Monsieur Remy had no problem entering the club with guns and the voodoo oddities that were required for tonight’s performance. A basic spell the Haitian had cast blocked the habitual motor responses of the bouncers. So instead of the usual vigilance, they now exhibited an overwhelming lack of concern for duty that revolved around Remy & Co. access without search or question. In a heartbeat they had fallen back into a familiar groove feeling they may have slipped up on something but just could not put a finger on what it was. Deacon’s small group had already merged into the melting pot of nubile flesh. Armed with the tools of the trade in destruction unbeknownst to the partygoers they were hell bent on getting what they came for, come what may.
VIP area - The Crypt
23.15
The music was just how he liked it and the punters were hyper, a stark contrast to what he was forced to work with at Black Book. He wasn’t sure the comparisons between crime fighting and entertainment were justified but it felt good ganging up on his bread and butter. Dancehall, Reggae, Hip Hop, R&B and rare grooves, all being played in one spot, he felt like going home for his duvet and making this place his permanent residence. Old habits die, hard.
Shaft sipped on his Courvoisier and wondered if a copper ever truly took time off from being a copper. Your sense of inquisitiveness just doesn’t switch off because you’re not on the clock. It’s much more than work or commitment but hardwired into your character. And if you’re relaxed, your eye for patterns is even more acute.
Relaxation, interesting word.
He’d heard that term before but that wasn’t something he was really familiar with, especially in the last few weeks. Shaft savored the mellow yet strong texture of the top class brandy and grinned to himself.
If the truth be known, tonight he felt like a stalker and it was not the kind of look he was going for. But it couldn’t be helped. Y was here working and that meant he would have to be here too. When they talked last, Y’s excitement was tempered with the fear of the unknown. If you throw in the almost impossible factor of Darkman wreaking havoc on the street then you have a possibly explosive concoction that he would not sit back and read about in the dailies tomorrow. Y tried to convince him they were safe because Spokes rationalized away any concern they may have with the guard ring he wore and the spiritual connection the girls had together. All that would make the Obeah man stay away long enough for them to do what they had to do.
He shook his head and reminded himself to smile at a young lady on the opposite table.
That explanation may reassure the ladies but he had a more distinguished track record on the foibles of psychotic personalities.
Enoch Lacombe was relentless and would find a way to get what he wanted. If it was painful for him, you can rest assured it will be unbearable for you. That’s where Shaft came in.
What could he do against the forces Enoch Lacombe could call upon at will? Now that was an entirely different issue. But he would be here. Shaft just hoped the Obeah man didn’t decide to make his move while the DJ was playing his rare groove selections. Better yet he could just decide to stay away. And while he was at this game of ‘What Would Be Better?’ It would be great if all this was a combination of a good dream and a bad nightmare so after some tossing and turning in bed he would wake up with a feeling like he had lived through days but in actual fact it was one night.
Shaft pinched himself and waited.
Nope.
He was still here and the threat was still immediate. He sipped on his brandy and waited.
Main Office - The Crypt
23.15
Y checked her watch and looked into the twilight maw of the ancient crypt for the fourth time, pacing to and fro nervously.
“He’s been out of radio contact for more than half an hour.” Patra nodded and conjured up an expression on her lips that Y could not read. “It just doesn’t feel right. He was talking to us, all the way down there. Now, nothing.”
“Maybe he dropped his radio and he just can’t get in contact.”
Y raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t think Slick fell and hurt himself do you?”
“I just don’t think so. He’s careful and quick on his feet. That alone has me concerned.”
“He did light his way down there, so I figure he knows where he’s going. Shit he could be having a good laugh at our expense.”
“I don’t think so. It’s just a feeling I’ve got.”
“Sugahh, don’t go all Hollywood woo-woo on me now. Suzy’s got that base c
overed. And she’s good at it.”
“Thanks.”
“Keeping it real, is what I do.” She paused for thought. “I think we should go down there,” Patra said ignoring the barbs directed at her and carefully observed Y’s response.
She exhibited a cool exterior as always.
Y was the strategist and her mind was best suited for planning and considering possible roadblocks before they came into being and this scenario was considered and expelled from her mind in quick succession. Y smoothed down the non-existent crinkles around the waist of her designer suit. Deep down her fears of darkness and closed quarters were shrieking inside her but the bushido training kept them at bay. Y licked her suddenly dry lips.
“Let’s go, but Suzy needs to know.”
“I’m on it.”
“I’ll try and reach Spokes again.”
Patra gazed down into the cavity of the wall before she opened the door and left the room for a moment. When she returned, Y had just placed the handset down on the teak desk and grimly shook her head in the negative.
“She’s not there,” Patra said matter-of-factly.
“What?” asked Y.
“I checked the corridor and there’s no sign of Suzy.”
Y touched the earpiece, keying the radio and calling for her over the radio waves.
Static responded.
“Call her mobile,” Y instructed.
Patra flipped out her Smartphone phone like it was a deadly weapon and voice dialed Suzy.
Suzy’s phone rang with no answer.
“Voice mail kicked in.” Patra pronounced.
“Can you feel it now?” Y asked.
“I don’t have to, I know something ain’t right.”
Y swore and stormed over to the entrance and threw open the office door, stepping outside into the corridor and briskly walking its length, calling out for Suzy as she went.
No sign of a struggle, not as much as an indication that she was ever here. Even the smell of her perfume was absent. Y turned to head back to the office when she sensed her surroundings sway, as if God the DJ had touched the disk of Earth’s movement as if preparing to rewind a cosmic track.
The music stopped.
Human chatter died away.
The club was dead quiet.
A sudden chill quaked through her body and Y’s legendary composure vanished. She reached behind her and pulled the katana out of its sheath. Her senses ramped up four notches. Her breath was coming through her mouth in raspy spurts as she backed into the office, the katana tracing figure eights in the air, her eyes straining to catch any movement. Patra knew what was coming next.
“Oh man, I’m not dressed for this spelunking shit.” Y moaned.
Without looking back she spat.
“Let’s find Spokes.”
“We can’t just up an leave her.” Patra said. “She may need us.”
“Remember when Suzy’s Security van got jacked, a year ago, and that idiot armed robber tried to shoot her. She received a flesh wound and she broke his arm and his ten fingers.”
Patra smiled.
“Yeah.”
“Can you remember how you felt?”
“I just knew the Ms Wong was hurt but ok. Yeah I knew. Weird shit.”
“What do you feel now?”
Patra closed her eyes for some seconds and nodded licking her lips.
“Nothing.” Patra said.
Y kicked the door shut, felt the temperature in the room fall some degrees and scurried down into the crypt.
Dance floor
The Crypt
23.15
This was one of the very few occasions that Deacon allowed himself to be led into a situation that he had not stacked to his advantage with subterfuge or violence before-hand. Standing behind the Obeah man Monsieur Remy Jean-Philippe smelt the air like a shiny brown cocker spaniel, attracting the attention of some of the more curious clubbers not occupied in dance and drink. When they became too inquisitive at the peculiar man dressed all in white, totally out of sync with accepted fashion trends, he would skewer them with dark emotionless eyes, drawing them in for a second into his diabolical world and then discard them.
Soon enough they scurried away to some other part of the room where the sense of threat wasn’t so acute. The Vodun was on a mission that involved pride and power in a similar vein to Deacon’s search for the treasures. Monsieur Remy wanted to be known as the most powerful living Vodun while Deacon wanted a more corporeal prize.
Run the street uncontested.
A little yout from Trench town, boss of all bosses.
From Papa Remy’s excited murmuring and galvanic spurts of movement, that possibility was becoming apparent with every moment.
They moved through pockets of dancers easily, the Voodoo priest’s eagerness or enthusiasm cutting through the gyrating bodies, leading them across the dance-floor to the other side of the expansive room. Deacon had a feeling they were not being led to the open areas but the zones that were restricted to staff only, areas that he could see from here, were heavily guarded. They were tooled up but this wasn’t to be that kind of mission, at least not amongst so many witnesses. It would be interesting to see how Remy would surmount that obstacle from his bag of tricks. The Vodun himself was being drawn by a burning desire which was tugging him to the seated area and a darkened cubicle in particular where a velvet rope hung with the words Reserved attached to it.
“Sit.” Remy unhitched the rope and motioned for Deacon to enter. He slid in after him and immediately placed his satchel on the table and flipped up the flap. The witchdoctor rummaged through it and eventually pinched a white powder and then some blue crystalline granules onto the table. He opened up a pocket knife and used it to combine the two compounds.
They immediately reacted and started issuing streams of fluffy white plumes of smoke. Deacon attempted to get up but Remy had already placed his nostrils over it and he was inhaling deeply, sucking it through his nose and mouth.
Without further delay the Haitian was back on his feet, bag over his shoulder, on a course for the ‘Staff Only Beyond This Point’ sign ahead of them.
Deacon was wondering “What next?”
Although he had faith in his powers, in a strange way he was waiting to be surprised like a child anticipating a magician’s next illusion. Except in this circumstance it was all too real. The gangster was doing his own assessments in the meantime, confirming what he had expected, that all the staff entrances were covered by security personnel except this one which most likely allowed access from the inside only. For all he had seen, all the incredible and sometimes downright scary stuff he had performed, he waited with bated breath especially for the surprise he would be experiencing any moment. CCTV cameras hung like the trophies of a hunter of mechanized Cyclops, only a red blinking light indicated that they were alive and surreptitiously monitoring all their movements in its zone of influence, its masters thinking it could replace the intelligence of a man. Never in a million years would they have thought it would be monitoring the movements of a sorcerer.
Remy walked up to the cameras, looking up at them as if he didn’t understand its function. He inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke from his mouth and nose that kept coming. Seconds turned into minutes.
Without a breath.
The hoarse sound from his throat accompanied by the whoosh of the smoke got louder and Remy’s mouth was at full stretch, like a boa constrictor’s jaw dislocating to accommodate its prey.
Deacon stepped back with his men fearing Remy was going to spontaneously combust and watched in rapt awe as the substance that looked like smoke had acquired coherence and a semblance of life. It became writhing mass, sprouting tentacles hungry for discovery or mayhem. It crawled over the electronics, frying microcircuits and melting plastic, rendering the cameras ineffective in its path. It oozed its way through vents and cracks leaving a caustic trail of destruction on its way to do the Obeah man’s bidding.
; Yuh hafe tek bad ting mek laugh, he thought.
Amidst the horror Deacon pictured Papa Remy going ‘boom’ in his mind’s eye and just couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. Even as the security door opened on its own accord and Remy boldly stepped through, the hilarity stuck with him as he followed him in.
Guard Duty Outside Main Office
The Crypt
23.55
One moment Suzy was settling into the waiting game, enjoying the music but aware of her surroundings and the next she could feel the sticky tentacles of something other-worldly encroaching on her normal world. That itchy sensation inside the back of her head was creeping along her spine, laying eggs that hatched into more creeping things along the way. Suzy swung around, checking her zone but her perception felt odd as if she was onstage and the backdrop had changed subtly. Something was different. She took in a calming breath and realised the other security guards that she could see from her vantage point had disappeared. Suzy stood on her tip-toes and still she could see no one securing the other entrances or exits.
Then, peculiarly the music stopped suddenly with no protests or consternation.
The hum of human merriment just went dead too and for no particular reason Suzy checked her digital watch.
It had stopped.
Gooseflesh migrated along her back and chest, making her nipples and clitoris tingle. Not a good sign. Suzy reached for both the suntetsu on her waist and gripped them in her fists, trying to ignore the hairs on her back standing on end. The suntetsu was a weapon adapted from the ancient design the ninjas used in feudal Japan. It was a small metal spike with a ring attached in the centre of its length for your middle finger to thread through and was easily concealed in the palm of your hand. It was an assassin’s tool, inconspicuous but deadly in the right hands. Of which hers was perfect.
Suzy waited, her heart thumping like a trip-hammer in her chest.
Nothing materialized.
She put her back to the office door and rapped on it three times with the tip of the suntetsu.