Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  “I…”

  “I was fine. My family wasn’t. I chalk it up to poor luck… and human stupidity.” He shook his head. “The bodies they found in the wreckage of our house, they weren’t human. Since then, I can smell that junk anywhere—Humours, and regular plain-jane emotions. Came in handy, during the war.” He chuckled. “Gus called me Trusty, like I was a dog. I know he was joking, but… I never stopped chasing that scent. Hatred, jealousy… avarice. It’s why I became a cop—the odor of crime offends me, Rose. It stinks up the neighborhood.” He sniffed. “But I don’t smell any evil on you.”

  “Gee, thanks.” She knew Vance had been a police detective; he’d made headlines several times, after the war. To see him like this… it reminded her of an old dog. Or perhaps a rabid one, she thought, eyeing the spittle on his chin.

  “I can smell the Humours inside you, though,” he said.

  “Inside me?”

  “Yes. All of them, churning in your blood. Yet you’re alive. You’re still sane. The Humours are balanced perfectly. A woman with that kind of power… She could make a lot of money.”

  She shook her head. “I want to live clean. I’m not pulling people’s heartstrings for cash.”

  “Draughts aren’t clean, either.”

  Rose found herself losing patience. She hadn’t come all the way down here, just to talk semantics. “Look. If you can’t help me get rid of this stuff, I need to find someone who can. And quick.”

  “Hmm. Lucky for you, I may know a guy.” He plucked one of his notes from the wall—a postcard sporting a seaside hotel. “Mayor Nichols is hosting a soiree in Atlantic House, on Nantasket Beach. All the big-wigs will be there, boozing it up on Friday night. They’re bringing in some weirdo by the name of Edwin Fischer.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Some kind of ‘expert’ on Draughts. They want him to get behind a podium and explain the ‘public health risk’ of the stuff—prop up their agenda.” He smiled, his lips white. “From what I’ve heard of Fischer, he’s not exactly reliable—more like a grade-A lunatic. But he’s your best shot. Nobody understands Draughts, not even distillers, like Fischer does.”

  Rose frowned. Atlantic House was a huge mansion out near the coastal theme parks of Hull—a comfortable, secluded retreat for the rich and powerful. “I’ll never get into a joint like that. Not on my own.” She looked at the wheelchair. “If you could come with me…”

  “I can’t help you right now. I’ve got anarchists to catch, and a thousand-year-old mystery to solve. I need to find out why those stones—” He grimaced, clutching his stomach, and the ghost of an ugly need flickered on his face. Rose stepped back. She’d seen enough jake-legs to see the shadow of withdrawal, there.

  “Are… are you okay?”

  “If I don’t die first, I’m going to catch the bastards. Where the hell’s that morphine? Sylvester!” There was no answer. “Goddamn wound…”

  She eyed the bandages—horizontal, tight, stained with rusty bloodstains. “Someone stabbed you?”

  “Yeah, they got me pretty good.” He dug in his pants pocket, shifting awkwardly to avoid jostling his wound. “Here. I had to spend most of my cash on a little project at the quarries, but this is what’s left.” He handed her a crumpled hundred-dollar bill, a regular fortune for a woman like her.

  She shook her head. “I can’t take this from you.”

  “You’re a thief. That’s your job. Just take the damn money, Rose.”

  “But your medicine…”

  “Just delays the inevitable. I’m not long for this world—stealing sand from the hourglass, right now.” He swallowed. “Be careful, at that party. These people I’m chasing… these ‘Soldiers of Mithras,’ they’ll see it as a target. Bunch of cops and politicians? Might as well leave a note saying ‘bomb goes here.’”

  “I understand.” She turned to go. “Thanks for this. No one… There aren’t many people in Boston, who’d help someone like me.”

  “Well, most people in Boston are assholes, so that makes sense.” He held up a hand. “You said you ran the docks job with Gus Henderson?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mick nodded. “Good guy, when he’s sober. Tell him I’m alive. And tell him…” Mick swallowed, and that ugly need surfaced again, a chemical hunger that lurked inside his skin, worse than any Draught. “Tell him I get it, about the Greed. Why he can’t stop.”

  “I… I will.” Sylvester was coming up the stairs; she heard his small feet tapping the unshod boards. “Take care of yourself, Vance.”

  “No promises.” He coughed, the rasp of a man who wasn’t on Death’s doorstep, but had certainly received his invitation. “No promises.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THERE WAS an unspoken rule, in the underworld: never kill just one person in a gang, not if you really meant business. If you were going to hit someone, you needed to hit them hard. And if you didn’t hit hard, anyone you hadn’t killed would come at you with a blunt instrument… or the closest firearm.

  Gus applied this grim arithmetic immediately after he’d killed Steve Wallace. He was now forced to avoid the cops and Steve’s remaining brothers, who would learn shortly that the enforcement arm of their family was dead. To stay alive, Gus had to go underground, and leave no trace. It would be undignified and cowardly… but with few allies and fewer guns, he had no choice.

  For the next few days, he existed out of sight and out of mind. He slept under bridges, drank his Greed nearly raw, and ate whatever scraps he could find. While the Mayor’s gala approached, fancy town-cars rolling south and clogging roads all the way to Mattapan, Gus was putting together a plan.

  He’d discovered an old friend—well, “friend” wasn’t quite the word—living in a transient house, in Dorchester. It took a little convincing, but eventually his new ‘friend’ got the keys to a certain evidence locker. Inside that locker were guns—bigger, better guns than the ones he’d stashed away. He consolidated his armory, and by Thursday afternoon he was ready to make a move.

  It was going to be the most dangerous stunt he’d ever pulled, but the rewards would be worth it. If he survived.

  He’d been tempted to turn tail, naturally. But the Wallaces had tried to kill him, and no self-respecting Henderson put up with that kind of behavior. A message had to be delivered. So he waited, and counted his ammo, and when the time came he called his unexpected friend and they climbed onto the subway carrying large, brown Army surplus bags.

  As far as violent takeovers went, it didn’t go too badly.

  The Wallaces owned a secret casino in Charlestown, called the Irish Bonny. Not the most original name, but then, the Wallaces had never been the most original criminals. The gambling den was hidden in an alley even the hardest sailors avoided, the sort of area you could catch death for looking at someone sideways. Gus had never been a fan of the Bonny—he was a poor gambler, and back-room dice weren’t his style anyhow. He preferred a sure bet, and that was why he’d decided to kill every last son-of-a-bitch between him and the Wallace Brothers today.

  Gunshots were frequent in Charlestown, but the Wallaces weren’t stupid: any shots in or around their stronghold would make them bolt—or worse, come at him with guns blazing. He’d lured their bouncer out from behind the secret door, by spinning a yarn about his wife throwing him out. Asking for a drink over and over until the man lost his temper and came out to put the hurt on him.

  His real wife had left years ago, and their kid was grown—joined the Navy, or so Gus had heard. But the bouncer didn’t know that, and when he stepped into the alley ready to break some Myth bones, the pair of them cracked his skull with lead pipes in an ambush. Gus did most of the swinging.

  Turned out, once you’d bitten a man’s face off, beating another’s brains in was practically easy.

  They hid the corpse behind a trash bin, and squeezed through the door—his friend was a large man—and into the casino. It was cramped and smoky, with a plenty of blind corners Gus didn’t like at al
l. It was two o’clock, so the tables were empty. Three guards were bellied up against the bar.

  Gus was big, but he could be quiet when he needed to, and his companion was no stranger to surprise attacks. Between the two of them, they beat the hell out of all three men, before the Wallaces got wise to what was going on.

  Then things got messy.

  A shot fired from the shadows nearly took off his nose, whipping through the murk and clipping his cigar. Lifting Rose’s pistol, he plugged the guy twice before a casing got jammed in the slide. It didn’t matter; twice was enough. The man flopped onto the sawdust-covered floor, his final breath wheezing out.

  There was no time for his brain to catch up to the carnage. A huge shape loomed out of the smoke—the gunshots had alerted a Myth in the taproom, and Gus didn’t have time to clear his jam. He yelled for his new friend, who had frozen at the gunshot’s intimate thunder.

  “Malloney! Get that big fella!”

  James Malloney had been thrown out by his wife and had nothing to lose, and luckily for Gus, his moral fiber had not been solid to begin with. He’d found working with Gus very acceptable, after he’d sobered up. Now he backed up his promise by tossing a chair at the Myth.

  The monster was a tall man, hopped up on Rage with red spikes jutting from his suit. He swung the butt end of his rifle at Malloney, the cop staggering against the bar to avoid the blow.

  Gus finally cleared his jam and put the rest of the clip through the Myth’s skill. At this range, just a few paces away, it was impossible to miss. Not even the armor plates of his forehead were enough to stop the nine-millimeter rounds from rending the man’s head to pieces. Blood and bone sprayed across the room in a geyser of death.

  The Myth crashed to the floor, emptying his bowels with a wet spattering. In the silence after the fight, Gus checked his back wallet.

  “Nine bucks? Cheapskate.”

  He checked the man’s papers, scanning pictures of a young buck who looked nothing like the dead monster on the floor.

  “Hogarth Jones, you picked the wrong job, my friend.”

  “They’re bound to hear us now,” Malloney said, Irish accent choking the words. He looked ready to puke; he’d been a dirty cop, sure, but he wasn’t used to action like this. Most of his speakeasy raids had probably ended in surrender by the criminals involved.

  Luckily, Gus was made of sterner stuff.

  “If they thought we were a real problem, they’d have sent more men.” Gus tossed the wallet aside; he had a flicker of sympathy for the buck-toothed youth they’d killed, but it was quickly drowned by a burning desire to lay his claws on some cash. “Come on. Let’s show ‘em how much of a problem we really are.”

  There was a door set into the back wall, around a tight corner. As one, the two of them moved towards it—Gus eagerly, Malloy with hesitation. Standing on either side, they could hear murmuring voices.

  “Ready?”

  Malloney swallowed, cradling the rifle the Myth had dropped. “Ready.”

  They burst into the counting room high on adrenaline, and it proved to be their undoing. Malloney tripped on the doorjamb, knocking Gus into the wall. The ex-cop dropped his gun, and Gus raised his too late to be first on the draw, too late for anything but death in a shootout—

  Click. Another jam. Jesus, where did Rose buy this piece of shit—

  He froze. He didn’t have a chance: another huge thug stood with an elbow braced against the strong-box, heavy Browning at the ready. He didn’t fire, but he did grin, a cold ugly smirk that reminded Gus of the cost of being too cocky in this biz.

  “Idiots. Put your fuckin’ hands up.”

  That came from the poker table in the center of the room, under a dangling lightbulb. The two remaining Wallace brothers, Frank and Jim, sat there table playing cards. A pretty dame with a bob-cut was pouring them whiskey.

  “You heard him, fellas.” Frank laid his cards face-down on the table, the tiny room hot and dusty and full of cigarette fumes. “That’s far enough. Hands up.”

  Gus cursed inwardly; of course they’d be ready. Only the stupidest mobster in the world would let the enemy storm his stronghold, without having a big-ass defense ready. He let the Mauser dangle from his thumb, spreading his arms.

  “Any room at the table, Frankie?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

  “Shut up, asshole.” Jim was scowling; his hand rested on a pistol on the table, the barrel pointed towards Gus. “I take it you’re the one who killed Stevie.”

  “Stevie-boy tried to give me new breathing-holes,” Gus said. “I didn’t want ‘em.”

  “You scumbags,” said Malloney, with sudden fury. “You got me fired! You and your stupid Jake!”

  “Buddy. Not now.” Gus waved a hand. “Boys, this is James Malloney. Used to be a cop.” He was trying to steer the conversation, such as it was, in the direction of staying alive a few more second. As long as the bosses were talking, the gunman wouldn’t shoot—he wouldn’t want his pay docked for killing someone too soon.

  “Yeah, we know.” Frank sighed. “Why did you roll in like this, Henderson? I was damn close to a full house. Now we gotta put the game away, and kill your stupid ass.”

  His brother snorted. “Full house, bullshit.”

  Gus was impressed by their professionalism. A pair of armed rogues had burst into their sanctum, and they’d both kept cool. Bastards they might be, but a savvy bunch all the same. “I wanted your attention, boys.” Gus spat his ruined cigar on the floor; the trigger-man flinched, and Gus tensed. “Sometimes a man’s gotta be direct.”

  “Direct? You crazy fuck.” Frank stared at him. “What was the plan here? Put us all in the ground? You’re an idiot. It’s a miracle you got this far, with a fat washout like that for your backup.”

  Malloney fumed, but Gus waved him down. “I didn’t want to kill you. I told you already.” He licked scaly lips, his mouth parched. “I want a seat at your table.”

  They both stared at him. Jim chuckled, Frank rolled his eyes.

  And the triggerman smiled, and he lowered his gun—and Gus pulled a Derringer from his pocket, and shot him in the chest. Wham. The shot was low-caliber, but cacophonous in the tiny space.

  The Wallaces draw their weapons. It was just a few feet to the poker table, and Gus had a long stride. He stepped took a swipe at both of them—a broad swing, intended to knock one of them off-balance. It was a long shot, and there was no way they wouldn’t get a shot off. No way in hell.

  But he did it with his eyes fixed on the strong-box, splattered with the trigger-man’s blood. Mine. All of that money’s mine, it belongs to me…

  The Greed surged inside him, and his arm seemed to lengthen, bones crunching and skin pulling tight. What had been a desperate strike became a length of vicious muscle. He caught Frank on the chin, and Jim in the neck, and both went flying. Guns scattered.

  The dame screamed, shrinking back against the wall. Both brothers crashed to the ground. Even Malloy seemed surprised, his pink mouth dropping open. Gus drew a bead on Frank with the Derringer. “Stop fuckin’ around. We were having a conversation.”

  He pointed at the chairs.

  “Sit.”

  Confused, the Wallaces picked up their seats… and sat down. They put their hands up as Malloney collected their guns. There was dirt on Frank’s fine suit now, and Jim was sweating like a pig, eyeing the door. The tables had turned in an instant—and Gus didn’t properly know how he’d done it.

  “That’s better,” he said, and pulled up a chair. “Malloney, make sure that fella’s dead.”

  “S-sure, boss.” Malloney’s gun barked, and the Wallaces flinched. Their girl was sobbing in the corner now; Gus ignored her. Killing was distasteful, but now that he was on top of the situation, he didn’t mind it as much. Worked great when you needed to make a point.

  “Good man.” Gus snatched the bottle of bourbon and took three quick swigs. “Ahh. Bit dry down here, ain’t it?”

  There was a brief,
dusty silence.

  “Why didn’t you plug us?” Jim said. Frank only stared.

  “Because it would be stupid to take out the brains of a perfectly good operation.” Gus sat down. His heart was still pounding with nerves. “You’ve got a brand, boys. I’m not starting from the bottom—I already lost my best partner, trying that. I’m not scraping my way to the top. I’m climbing there, on the back of your boys.”

  He grinned. He’d gotten pretty drunk before they walked in, but unlike a lot of people Gus didn’t get stupid when he drank. He just cared less—about everything. Human lives, violence, ugliness. The only thing he cared about, when he drank, was cash. The bourbon straightened his spine and steeled his vigor. It could have used a little Greed mixed in, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “Nobody climbs over us,” said Frank. But he didn’t say it very loudly.

  “Yeah, yeah, wave your dick at me if you want.” He took another drink. “You can piss and moan, or you can get on board, and make a truck-load of cash. Get me?”

  Jim just shook his head. Frank nodded.

  “Gus!” Malloney was examining the corpse’s wallet. “This stiff’s a Prohibition agent.”

  “We’ll deal with the body. You—shred his papers.” He snapped his fingers at the moll. Shivering like an autumn leaf, she hurried to obey, the Derringer trained on her the whole time. Gus peeked at Frank’s hand. “Royal flush. I’ll be damned.”

  Jim snapped. “Henderson, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “Relax. I’ve got a business proposition for you.” He nodded at the strong-box. “You boys got distillery runes in there?”

  Frank sighed. “Yeah.”

  “Good. I want you to sell ‘em.”

  The men looked at each other. Frowned. “Why would we do that?” said Jim. “Do you know how hard those things are to find? The carving has to be flawless…”

  Gus shook his head. “They’ll be worthless, once the Feds start raiding us. Step one in changing industries: liquidate old assets.”