Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  Lombardini bent over and tore one scaly whisker off Gus’ cheek. The ex-boxer felt uncharacteristic horror, as Big Joe’s teeth crunched down on his flesh, nibbling it like licorice. “The god in my blood is Hades, son. King of the dead. My boon companion is Despair. Tell me, what god can stand against death?”

  “How about the god of bullets?” said Mick. He'd slipped behind them, and was holding the revolver to Joe's head.

  Lombardini grunted. “Touché,” he said, and then Mick blew his head off.

  Gray flesh splattered across the alley. Silence fell, and the two men sank to the ground, exhausted. The screech of tires and the glare of flashlights announced the cavalry was here—the coppers were fanning out, cornering the surviving smugglers. Out on the docks, the tugboat was pulling away.

  Gus weighed his options. He hadn't found Rose, and Mick needed a doctor. But if he stayed, he'd get locked up. And without access to Greed in the slammer, his cancer would come back. “I gotta split.”

  Mick nodded. “You owe me… a drink.”

  “Anytime, pal.” Mick’s head nodded, and for a moment Gus thought he was gone. But no, he was still breathing—shallow but steady. Damn, he’s a tough little sucker.

  Tapping bootheels sounded in the dark. Gus sprinted towards downtown, taking back-streets and service alleys—he’d lose them around Scollay Square. No cop would step into the Square without backup and a fistful of warrants.

  Mick passed out on top of Lombardini’s corpse. The hired gunmen were scattering into the night, pursued by stumbling policemen in a quiet, deadly game of tag.

  The city, roused by the shots and screaming, slowly returned to its slumber.

  CHAPTER 17

  ROSE WOKE to the sound of bells.

  The horrors she'd seen and felt blazed in her mind, a symphony of terror. She clawed awake to find herself in her bed, in her own apartment. Through the window, warm daylight streamed. It was cooking her skin as she lay sprawled on dirty sheets.

  She was nude, her body covered in sweat and her hand throbbing. Pulling a ragged blanket over her shoulders, she tried to recall what had happened. Gus had taken her gun. Then the docks… the truck. Ponzi. And the machine.

  She looked at her hand. The needle-marks were still there, pockets of clotted blood surrounded by bruised flesh.

  Outside, she heard children shouting, and church-bells petering off. Everyone would be in their Sunday finest, outside.

  I should be dead.

  There was no way she’d absorbed that amount of Humours, and lived. The stuff was an unholy poison; she should be a melted pile of flesh, or at least mutated in some way. How had she survived?

  Rising from bed, she peered out the window. The few stragglers whose husbands or children had kept them late were hurrying to the street-cars, white churchgoers skirting around black ones. The balance of life was tenuous out here: a mix of Haitians, Irish, Latvians and Souther ex-pats made the neighborhood a patchwork. It was the only place she’d ever seen where such a mixture hadn’t ignited into violence.

  Sharp pains in her forehead sent colors dancing over her eyes. She couldn’t remember a thing from last night, after the needles had gone in. The machine had begun to glow… or perhaps she had, lighting up like neon. She remembered fear—remembered the distinct feeling of going insane from the cocktail of different Humours. And then nothing.

  Well, there was no helping it now. Whatever had been done to her, had been done. She had to pick herself up and start again—their job was still botched. She needed to find Gus, and figure out if Wallace’s gang had heard about last night. If they had, they would be angry. Very angry.

  She pulled on a man’s button-down shirt and trousers. She had plenty skirts, but if the Wallace boys paid her a visit, she’d rather be ready for a fight. They’d always been reluctant to have her on, and if Gus was dead…

  He can’t be dead. I still have to get even with him. Her anger faded, though, thinking on the brutality of the gunfight. If he hadn't forced her to the sidelines, she would’ve been out in the open when the shooting began. In his own chauvinist, stupid way, he’d saved her. She didn't know whether to be thankful or furious.

  She knew who she was angry with—Carla fucking Ponzi. If it hadn’t been for her backstabbing, Rose would’ve gotten away clean. But holding a grudge didn’t make a lot of sense, after that bloodbath. The crazy Italian probably hadn’t survived.

  If she didn’t, though, how did I?

  Rose was not the type of person to sit still. She was alive, and that was what mattered. Even the air of her stuffy, overheated room tasted sweet, when she considered how close she’d come to eating a bullet.

  The colors flashed over her eyes again as she tightened her belt, and she waited for them to pass, unconcerned. She had work to do.

  Descending the cramped stairs of the old, colonial-style boarding house, she passed through her landlord’s bakery on the ground floor. She would’ve asked Mr. Drozdov for a little breakfast, but she was trying to avoid him after missing her rent twice in a row. Fortunately, he didn’t even give her a glance as she passed; it was Sunday, and business was booming.

  There were no cops lurking outside the back door, but when she turned the corner towards Dudley Station, someone was waiting there. Two someones, in loose gray suits with slicked-back hairstyles.

  She recognized them from her midnight runs. Seamus and Jack Walsh, bruisers for the Wallace crew. Before she could run, Seamus grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her into an alley.

  There was no negotiation, no intimidation. These men preferred fists, instead of words. The first few swings were sharp and probing, testing her resistance. When she raised her hands in defense, Jack shoved her face-first into the wall, knocking out a tooth. It pinged off a trashcan and landed in the gutter, white and ragged.

  Rose tried to duck around them, but they were experienced. Whatever her crime had been, they wouldn’t leave until they were satisfied she’d gotten the message. So she took the beating as best she could. They caught her in the chin, the gut, the chest. Each blow called up more fury in her. She reached for her pocketknife—

  Jack caught her hand. “No you don’t,” he said, hauling it away. Rose ducked as he went to throttle her, and his fist smashed the wall. “Ah! Slippery bitch.” He back-handed her, and Rose slumped against the bricks, her ears ringing.

  “Mr. Wallace is… disappointed,” said Seamus, lighting a cigarette. A woman in a petticoat passed by the edge of the alley, and then hurried on, her face a mask of fear. No one was coming in to save the day, today.

  “We had your goods,” Rose said. The colors were rising again, and this time they weren’t just spots: there were tiny rivers of light, flowing over her eyes. “We were going to pay you back…”

  “Shut up!” The big one kicked her in the neck, and she fell against a bin of bread crusts buzzing with flies. “Excuses are for people we don’t own.”

  Another curious bystander looked their way, before the smaller man pointed a Colt at him, and he sprinted off. Then he pressed the gun against Rose’s cheek.

  “Wallace needs Draughts,” said Seamus, blowing smoke. “Tonight. Or you’re finished—you, and your freak buddy Argus. Got it?”

  “Yes,” Rose said, and suddenly there was a tectonic shift somewhere inside her, and she could feel the emotions in this alley, almost see them. The intrusion on her senses was surprising, frightening, but she could intuit things through those pulsing colors. Understand things.

  For instance, Jack was excited—delight was flowing through him in colorful ribbons. But behind that, there was fear. Ugly, rancid fear, dark and scampering. He was filled with it.

  She looked at Seamus, and could sense a similar duality inside him. He was mostly bored—and tired. He yearned for something… perhaps a nap, perhaps a fuck. He longed to be anywhere but here, and because of that, he was pissed off.

  She could use this, she realized. Seamus Rose was a waste of his time; he was contemptuous o
f the ground they stood on. He hated even breathing Roxbury’s air.

  Rose reached out, not with her hands but with something else, something in her blood—and seized on Jack’s fear. Gripped it with an instinctive, vicious focus she couldn’t explain. She simply willed more fear into him… and something changed in the little man’s eyes. A rat-like panic overwhelmed behind his arrogance.

  “We gotta go,” he said, pocketing the gun.

  “Huh?” Seamus frowned. “The hell for? We’re supposed to work her over.”

  “Boss is pissed already. If we’re late for the next job… He’s looking for excuses to plug people. I don’t wanna be that excuse.” Jack was sweating, his eyes darting like a rodent’s.

  Rose felt his fear growing, tendrils of it clutching at him, blood pumping with rising panic. She couldn’t place how she knew this—where the connection lay. She just knew. How did I do that? What did I even do?

  “You’re a weasel, Jack. We ain’t done here.” Seamus gripped Rose by the throat. “Boss said give her something to remind her of her screw-ups. A little memento.”

  “Hell with that,” Jack said, shaking his head. “I’m outta here.”

  Some part of Seamus must have sensed what was going on. People in his world didn’t miss opportunities to beat on their inferiors—something was off. The criminal food chain had been disturbed.

  His eyes flicked from Jack to Rose, and back again, trying to put two and two together with sheer animal cunning. But then a fresh voice sounded from outside their tiny, violent microcosm.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. Have either of you heard the Good Word?”

  They all turned towards the voice. The speaker was a tall, skinny black man, sporting a neatly trimmed goatee. He had a straw boater-hat with a red ribbon, and wore a freshly pressed suit. In his hands was a thick, leather-bound black book. The letters on its spine read THE GOSPEL OF MITHRAS.

  Seamus and Jack paused. “Who the hell are you?” said Jack.

  “Lucas Harvey, gentlemen. Man of God. It’s a real pleasure.” His voice had a hard Caribbean lilt. He held out a hand to shake, and it hung in the air. The two bruisers were staring at it like it was a Myth’s tentacle. The fact that a black man had just walked up and addressed them seemed to short-circuit their tiny minds.

  Rose, bleeding from the mouth, stared at the man. He was either an idiot, or up to mischief—and either way, he was making things worse for her. She would be lucky to get out of this alley alive, now that this ‘Harvey’ had stuck his nose in things. It was a handsome, well-shaped nose for sure, but it was still unwelcome.

  “Buzz off. This is a private meeting,” said Seamus.

  But Jack was backing away. “Seamus, he’s a preacher. If we cut him up, the whole damn neighborhood comes after us—that’s how these people work. Come on, big fella.”

  For a moment, Seamus paused. Then he rabbit-punched Rose in the temple, once—knocking her vision to a blur, and leaving her concussed. “There’s yer memento, girl. Get those Draughts. Delivery’s gonna be in the usual spot, by midnight. Or we’ll be back… and next time, your village idiot here goes down with you.”

  Rose gave them the finger as they left… but not until their backs were turned. She pushed Harvey away, as he moved to wipe the blood from her lips.

  “Back off. I can take care of myself.” Her ears were still ringing and there was blood in her mouth, but she would survive—she’d had worse beatings, down in Florida. This was a mild scrap in comparison.

  “With respect, ma’am, everyone needs help sometimes.” His sunny smile hadn’t wavered, but there was concern in his eyes. “May I have the pleasure of your name?”

  She frowned. He didn’t talk like a Bostoner, and he definitely didn’t act like one. Charitable acts were a rare commodity, in this town.

  “Rose Sweetwater. I’m a… contractor.”

  “If you say so. Ms. Sweetwater, have you heard the news?”

  She rolled her eyes. Door-to-door evangelists were common where she came from, and she had no time for a sermon right now. “Look… I appreciate the help, but I need to get going.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that news. Everyone comes to Mithras in their own time. I meant this...” He pulled a rumpled newspaper out from between the pages of his holy book. “If you’re off to do some skullduggery tonight, I’d recommend to wait.”

  “I don’t know what ‘skulduggery’ you’re talking about.” But she took the paper, tongue playing over the gap of her missing tooth.

  The headline was bold and brazen, clearly a late edition. The ink was still fresh.

  GUN BATTLE KILLS 3 OFFICERS, 8 GANGSTERS

  DOCKSIDE WAS “TIDE OF BLOOD”

  MOOD-LEGGERS BLOW UP HUMOURS IN DEAL GONE WRONG!

  Concerned, she skimmed the front page. It was a waterfall of public condemnation. Widows of the dead had given interviews, and journalistic fury thundered from each sentence. One columnist cried that “every mood-legger should be rounded up and shot.” Energetic accounts described a lawless gunfight between “foul criminals” and the police. The paper brimmed with righteous shock—and the city’s finest were responding.

  Commissioner Curtis had promised “swift justice,” and several speakeasies had been raided or simply smashed by angry do-gooders. Business would be worse than ever, now. Odds of getting Walsh his goods were looking slim, for her.

  Not a single page mentioned the Red Queen, Carla, or even Gus—though local detective Mick Vance was mentioned, as being injured in the fighting. Mick the Nose? What was he doing there?

  “Thanks. At least now I know what to expect.” She handed the paper back to Harvey. “You heard what those two wanted.”

  He nodded sagely. “I did.”

  “You didn’t have to jump in, like that. You could have gotten hurt.”

  He shrugged. “Justice is the Lord’s. It doesn’t belong to men who beat on women in alleyways. I was just tipping the scales, miss.”

  She searched him for an angle, and couldn’t find one. Her new, subtle sense of emotions gave her nothing but the impression of warm concern, and a little attraction. He’d genuinely wanted to help… what was more, he liked her. She felt powerful echoes of admiration in him, and had no idea how to respond. Even worse, she felt herself responding in kind, eyes running over his strong cheekbones and deep brown eyes. Those goons must have hit her harder than she’d expected—Rose Sweetwater didn’t fall for anybody, much less some holy man off the streets.

  “Thanks. But I’m no saint—kind of the opposite. You just saved a criminal.”

  “We’ve all sinned. Doesn’t mean we can’t repent.” He patted his book. “The flock and I are opening doors tonight, getting people away from the crackdowns. We’re at First Mithran Congregational, if you need us.”

  “I… That’s very kind of you.” She caught him looking at her hands, and realized they still bore the marks of the machine. She shoved them in her pockets. “I’ll stop by, if things get bad. You’re… you’re a good man, Mr. Harvey.” And beautiful. But that’s not worth much, in a firefight.

  He shrugged. “If we don’t lift each other up, who will?” He placed the paper on a windowsill. “Don’t miss page six, by the way. Quite a story. Apparently, a woman with bleeding palms showed up at the Consumptive Hospital, about three in the morning. She was glowing like a traffic light, and everyone who saw her had a feeling of hope—the capital-H kind.” He winked, moving past her down the alley towards the rail station. “No saint, maybe. But you’re in the wheelhouse, for sure.”

  She grabbed the paper and flipped to page six. Sure enough, there was a fluff piece there. Witnesses had described a short colored woman, with a sad expression and ‘stigmata’ on her hands… exactly where Rose had been injected.

  CHAPTER 18

  MICK LAY IN AGONY at Massachusetts General. His insides were on fire with pain. They’d offered him morphine when he arrived, but he’d refused it. He’d seen too many soldiers come back, hooked on that shit
. His wound was brutal, horrific, but at least it served a purpose: to remind him what an idiot he’d been.

  That trench knife had passing neatly between his liver and other organs. Whether this was God’s plan, or simple luck, Mick didn’t know—but it could’ve been much worse. The doctors had promised him he’d fully recover in several months… if the police didn’t lock him up first.

  “I told you, I was meeting my gal for a boat ride. Then the whole dock turned into the O.K. Corral. It was awful.”

  The cop looming over his bed wasn’t convinced. Mick didn’t blame him; it was a clumsy lie, but outing himself as an agent of the Company would implicate him in twelve deaths, and he didn’t need that kind of hassle right now. If he were to have any chance of catching these anarchists, he needed to be able to work uninterrupted—outside the law.

  “What about your camera?”

  “My girl brought it. She’s got exotic taste,” Mick said, with a leer. It went over well, considering how gaunt he was from blood loss. “Likes to take pictures, once we take off our…”

  “Alright! That’s enough.” The man’s Catholic disgust showed through on his face. “We’ve taken the camera for evidence. Once the photos come out, we’ll see if you’re lying.” He snapped his notebook shut. “Until then, you can stay put. We lost good men last night—if there’s a chance you even fired one of those shots, you’re going downtown.”

  Mick shook his head. “I’m innocent. Hell, I used to be on the force, you know that. Why would I be shooting cops?”

  “No idea. I just think it’s suspicious Mick the Nose, private detective, just happened to show up at the same dock where twelve people died.” The cop’s gray eyes burrowed into Mick. “It would be easier if you told us the truth. You owe the department that much.”

  Mick shrugged. “I’ve made my statement. You don’t like it, feel free to lock me up. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

  The cop stared him down. Mick returned the glare; behind his bad attitude and machismo, he was tired. Worn down. He reflected his tormentor had probably lost a few friends last night, and tried to sound sympathetic. “Look. My lady’s got a room at the St. Cloud, uptown. Third floor, under Ponzi. If you want to cross me off the list, check those books. We wouldn’t be renting rooms at the Cloud if we were running Draughts, right?