Floodgate

by Johnny Shaw

Like a boiling pot, Gray started laughing. Small chuckles transformed into chortles. He laughed so hard that he had to put a hand on the desk for balance. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? You don’t know what to do next.”

  Andy stared at him, fuming. Just because the man was right, it didn’t mean he had to agree with the son of a bitch.

  CHAPTER 12

  the wealthy sit at their rococo tables

  the poor with nigh to buy or to sell

  lo, the hungry shall feast in heaven resplendent

  as the fed and the fat count gold in God’s hell

  —From the three-part poetry cycle “A Treatise of Man (Opalescence)” by Auction City poet Manfred Darwood (1977)

  With the gun aimed at Gray, Andy plopped down in an oversize leather chair. He did his best to appear menacing, but he had lost his momentum. He had come to the man’s house, expecting what? Answers. Surrender. Revenge. For a man who prided himself on his analytical reasoning, Andy could be a real idiot.

  “Tell me where Champ is. That’s all I want to know. I get sending someone after me, but she’s an innocent woman.”

  “Champ Destra is many things, but an innocent woman is not one of them.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I am sure I don’t,” Gray said. “What do I have to do with that old drunk?”

  Andy cocked the hammer back on his revolver.

  Gray held up both hands slowly. “I know you got a hard-on for me, but you got some wrong information on this one. If something happened to Champ, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You have your hand in everything.”

  “I can’t help you,” Gray said, sitting down in his big desk chair. “And to be honest, I’m tired of wasting my time. Why should I?”

  “This gun,” Andy said, jabbing his pistol at the air between them. “I have the gun.”

  “Sorry, Destra.” Gray laughed. “Do you know how many barrels I’ve looked down? How many people have been in your shoes? Guns don’t shake me. It’s the man at the trigger that might make me nervous. You aren’t that man.”

  “What’s this world coming to?” Andy said. “Used to be you pointed a gun at someone, they did what you said.”

  “Progress.”

  “Is there a nutcracker?” Andy asked.

  “What does that mean? Is that street slang for something?”

  Andy pointed with his chin at the bowl of nuts on the table next to him. He was starving.

  “Oh,” Gray said. “It should be on the table. Unless Imelda moved it when she cleaned. Then it’s anybody’s guess. Dig around in the bowl.”

  Andy stuck his hand in the bowl, keeping his eyes on Gray. When he glanced down, he saw Gray drop his hands out of view.

  “Hands on the table,” Andy shouted, accidentally knocking the bowl onto the floor.

  “Perfect,” Gray said. “When I step on a loose filbert in my socks, I’ll have you to blame.”

  “Even if you deny having anything to do with Champ, you hired a man to murder me. Admit that much,” Andy said, his voice raising. “I am a credible threat here. You need to start treating me like one.”

  “I suppose,” Gray said. “I’m just not buying it.”

  Andy fired a round into the ceiling. Plaster powder drifted down. Gray didn’t flinch.

  “I don’t know what that demonstrated. Other than a complete lack of manners,” Gray said. “What kind of man shoots another man’s house?”

  “I’ll shoot your car next,” Andy said, meaning it, even though he knew how stupid it sounded. “What do you know about Kate Girard, a bald African woman, a Japanese kid, and an old pickpocket?”

  “Is that a riddle? You’re all over the place, Destra,” Gray said. “Let me call a few people. Professionals. Get you the help you need. I was wrong about you. You’re not a threat. Just mixed up in the head.”

  “Why would those people save me?” Andy asked. “I get you trying to have me killed. That makes sense. I can’t figure out why anyone would risk their own lives to help me. Sort of help me. They also assaulted me.”

  “You’re really lost, aren’t you?” Gray’s eyes went up to the hole in the ceiling. “That’s going to be a pain in the ass to spackle.”

  Andy stood and paced in front of the old man’s desk. Gray reclined in his chair, hands behind his head.

  “I’ve said it before, Destra. I respect your tenacity. I do. You’ve been a thorn in my side for a long while. You ain’t got no quit in you. Every time I knock you down, there you are, back on your feet. Wish half the men under me had your grit.”

  “I was one of those men, but you framed me, forced me out,” Andy said. “Now you’re left with men like the Thorntons.”

  “Different animals. Different skill set. They serve their purpose. Keep the status very quo,” Gray said. “This city functions only when the citizens—the taxpayers—are focused on their lives and not the people that run the city. The problem is, you kept trying to turn the spotlight toward the police, other entities. I can’t have that.”

  “There are rules.”

  “Not really,” Gray said. “Not in real life among grown-ups. This city went rotten long ago. From the bottom up. No reason the criminals should get all the profit.”

  “That’s your rationalization?”

  “I sleep well. Sometimes after some intimate time with a professional, but always on my side with a pillow between my knees, if you’re interested.”

  “You’re one evil son of a bitch,” Andy said.

  “Evil. That’s cute.” Gray laughed. “You’ve painted yourself in a corner, but I’m a fair man. If you leave right now, I’ll give you a head start. Five minutes before I call my men. Best I can offer. Six, if I’m feeling generous. You have no plan, no teeth, and no chance.”

  Andy considered it. Probably the best offer he would get all day. He never had to make the decision, though. Gray made it for him.

  Gray’s gun appeared from nowhere, attached to the back of the chair, ready for a moment like this. The corrupt stayed as prepared as the paranoid.

  When Andy saw the glint of steel, his instincts kicked in. If you would have asked him, he wouldn’t have remembered pulling the trigger. He held a gun on a man. The man made a move. Simple math. Cop training. Human instinct. Andy shot Gray in the chest before Gray got off a shot. The old man shifted to the right and fell out of the chair, a red blossom forming on his white shirt, his hand still clutching the gun.

  “No. Damn it. No.” Andy ran to Gray. The old man gulped air. Andy pulled a small tablecloth off an end table, wadded it, and pressed it against Gray’s chest wound.

  “You killed me, boy,” Gray said, his voice thin, surprised. “Bigger stones than I gave you credit.”

  “Why’d you pull?” Andy said. “You had the advantage.”

  “I’ll kill you yet.”

  Aloysius Gray died, the man’s last exhale unencumbered by any answers.

  Andy took the pressure off the chest wound. He stared at the man’s lifeless body. He didn’t know what to do. Nobody ever taught him what happened after you killed your enemy. It was the first time he’d taken a man’s life. He felt sick and exhilarated and scared. It didn’t matter how much he’d hated the man. Gray had been a living person with friends and family and a past. No longer a future. Andy would have to consider his own fate, but in that moment it felt right to consider the dead man’s.

  The library door slammed open behind him. The bald African woman from Naga rushed into the room. Andy turned, pointing his pistol in her direction. She stopped just past the doorway, staring blankly at his revolver.

  “I shot him,” Andy said.

  “Is he dead?”

  Andy nodded. He slowly rose to his feet, keeping the gun on the bald woman. Behind her four more people entered the room. Four people that he recognized. Four people that he’d met in the last few days.

  “What the hell, Destra?” Kate Girard said, her eyes on Gray’s dead body. “Did
you shoot him? Did you kill Al Gray?”

  Andy nodded. “I shot him. Never killed no one. I shot him.”

  “This is bad. Very bad,” she said. “Do you know what you’ve done? What this means?”

  “I don’t think any of us do,” the bald woman said. “Leave him be. Be kind. He’s in shock.”

  Kate Girard turned to the old pickpocket. “This is on you. Your fault.”

  “Let’s blame each other later,” the old man said. “No time now. This is a mess. That’s for damn sure. We have to act quickly.”

  The one-armed woman from the Castles took in the scene. “Damage control. Stage the scene,” she said, moving quickly to the window and looking into the darkness of the front yard. “We’ve got to move. Ben, grab all the papers. Suicide or burglary, what’s the best way to frame it? Or do we throw Andy here to the lions?”

  “Andy comes with us,” the old man said. “Anonymous burglary. Chest shot won’t play for suicide.”

  The Japanese kid walked casually to Gray’s desk. Looking bored, he opened drawers and sifted through files and papers. He haphazardly covered the surface of the desk with the contents of the drawers. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

  Andy watched them in amazement. They were ignoring the murderer. Had he died in the gunfight? Was he a ghost?

  “There’s probably a safe,” the old man said. “We should get on that, too.”

  “Didn’t know you had it in you, Andy.” The one-armed woman winked and smiled at Andy. She walked to the bald woman and patted her on the shoulder. “At least it wasn’t you doing the killing this time, Agnes.”

  “I’m as surprised as you,” the bald woman said.

  “Will you people act like I have a gun?” Andy shouted. “Because I have a gun. It’s not invisible. At least I don’t think it is.” He backed toward the library doors. They all turned to him.

  “Seriously, Destra. What the hell happened?” Kate Girard said, moving to Gray’s body, checking his pulse and then his pockets.

  “Gray reached. I reacted,” Andy said. “It was an accident.”

  “Oh, it was an accident. I’m sure you’ll be fine, then. Just tell the judge it was an accident,” the Japanese kid said. “The jury will understand. You shot him by accident after breaking into his house. Probably a fine. Community service. Picking up trash in an orange vest on the side of the highway.”

  “Shut up, Ben,” the old man said.

  “I’m going to leave now,” Andy said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m not doing it here in this weird Benetton ad.”

  Andy waved the bald woman and the Latina away from the door. They shrugged and moved to either side.

  “Did Gray say anything before he died?” Kate Girard asked.

  Andy continued to back toward the door.

  “Did he, Andy?” the old man seconded, becoming more interested.

  “Not really.”

  The bald woman and the Latina stood only a few yards from Andy. They took a step closer. Subtle but definitely a threat, spreading his attention. Andy waved the gun between the two of them.

  “Stop moving. All of you,” Andy said, but the two women kept creeping forward.

  “We should talk about Gray,” Kate Girard said. “Sit down and figure this out.”

  “I don’t think so.” Andy took another step back. “I don’t need to do anything you want me to. I don’t know who you are, how you got here so quick, or what you want from me. I want nothing to do with whatever you have to do with.”

  “You’re stuck with us now,” the old man said. “We can help you.”

  “He is? We can?” the Japanese kid asked.

  “Shut up, Ben,” Kate Girard said. “Rocky decides this.”

  The bald woman and the one-armed woman continued their slow steps toward Andy.

  “Put the gun down. If it helps, son,” the old man said, “the city is not worse off with Gray gone. Maybe a little safer. He was a bad man. Although some other greedy bastard is going to rise to take his place.”

  “Hank Robinson. He’s always been the muscle behind Gray’s plans,” Kate Girard said. “Although Mac might have a chance in the chaos to push Ashley forward.”

  Andy’s head spun. “Quit talking. All of you. I’ll shoot everyone for the silence. Can’t you see I’m a killer now? I’m tired of your weird game. Quit pushing.”

  “Believe it or not, we’re your only option,” Kate Girard said. “We’ve been trying to protect you. Warn you.”

  “That’s why you kept seeing us everywhere, dumbass,” the Japanese kid said. “If we were out to get you, you’d be gotten. We’re that kind of bad.”

  “It’s like The Wizard of Oz,” the bald woman said. “‘You were there. And you.’ That movie has flying monkeys, but they’re not real flying monkeys. Just people in flying monkey costumes. Monkeys can’t fly. I know that now.”

  “Champ,” Andy said, coming back to reality. “I need to find what he did with her.”

  “I got good news and bad news, son,” the old man said. “The good news is that Champ is fine. I was worried about her safety, so I flashed a fake badge and took her out of that place. She’s in another facility.”

  “What are you talking about?” Andy asked, still backing out of the room. “You don’t know her. Even if you did, why would you do that?”

  “You didn’t ask about the bad news,” the Japanese kid said. “The bad news is that you killed the deputy police commissioner.”

  “Shut up, Ben,” the old man said. “I know Champ. I know her well, son.”

  “Quit calling me son,” Andy said.

  The room got quiet. Nobody said a word. For a brief moment, everything stopped but the thoughts of the people in the room.

  “I can’t take it. Tell him already,” the Japanese kid said, breaking the silence. “He’s calling you son because he’s your damn father. Andy Destra, meet Rocco Colombo, your long-lost daddy.”

  “What?” Andy asked. Definitely not what he’d expected to hear.

  The old man shrugged. “It’s true. I’m your father.”

  “Well,” Andy said. “That’s just fucking great.”

  1929

  LONG PAST DAYS

  I couldn’t tell if the red-haired girl knew the sewers, but she moved with confidence. Short legs darting through the water. No hesitation. No second-guessing. She trusted her choices. She didn’t trust me. No reason to.

  We heard others. Voices. Splashing water. Running. Insane screaming. Laughing. Butchery. Muted crying.

  The girl found good shadows. Narrow fissures. Hidden doors. We squeezed into a tight nook. Her freckled face close to mine. Our bodies close. Her clothes wet. Her body warm.

  “Don’t get any ideas.” Her knife against my crotch. The gun close, too.

  “Never had an idea before. Ain’t gonna start now.”

  We could’ve went separate. But without a single word. Without any accord. We had taken to run together. Our plan to survive the day.

  “What’s at the Turkish baths?” she asked.

  “My people.”

  “They aren’t mine.”

  “Got anywhere else to go?”

  No answer. A gunshot rang out. Dull thuds against wet bricks.

  “Pipes are getting crowded,” she said.

  “Never been this far. Don’t know where we’re at.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Pushed up on the manhole with my head and shoulder. Heavy. An inch at a time. Scraping against the road. Darkness above. Strange darkness. A truck was parked overhead. On top of us. Lucky for the cover. I crawled up. Scoped the street from behind a tire. The girl followed.

  The fires had grown. Spread like waves. The air twenty degrees hotter. No longer winter. Smoke everywhere. Not a damned soul in the hell of it. A few scattered bodies littered the road and walk. Bloody, burnt, or beaten. A dog ran past.

  “The closer we are to the fires,” I said, “the safer we are from people
.”

  “It’s still fire.”

  “We’re close. A dozen blocks. A few more.”

  “Watch it,” she said. Made her body flat.

  A group of men rounded the corner. All in uniform. Not military. Not coppers. Baseball players. I recognized them from afternoons sneaking into Charbonneau Field. Honus Harrow. Jack Brighton. Maxie Monroe. The Auction City Terrapins. Every man had a bat. Some with nails driven through them. All bloodstained.

  They marched past. Ducky DePaoli juggled three baseballs. Backlit by the burning buildings. A few smiled. Demons at play.

  Ducky dropped a ball. Rolled toward us. I held my breath. It stopped a foot from my leg. He moved to retrieve it. I reached for my cleaver.

  I felt the girl’s hand on my shoulder. Turned. She nodded, pistol in hand. We would fight together. Die together.

  “Leave it,” Maxie Monroe said, tossing Ducky a fresh ball. He caught it, shrugged, and joined the rest of the Terrapins.

  They passed. We breathed again. The girl pulled me in the opposite direction. “There’s a police station near here.”

  The thought of the Negro boys. Their death. The last act of brutal men. “I don’t want nothing to do with the coppers.”

  “Their horses might still be in the stable.”

  Heard the wild animal screams from a block away. Sharp. Unnatural. Monstrous. The sound of a woman holding her dead child.

  The police station turned to burning embers. Torched first, no doubt. Abandoned. Flames licking at the stable next door. Posts abandoned. The horses forgotten. Left to die a horrible death.

  The girl opened the stable door. I stood ten yards behind in the middle of the street. Three crazed animals bolted toward me. No time to move. I closed my eyes. Waited to be trampled. Felt their air, strands of mane. They ran past.

  Smoke filled the stable. Horses kicked at stalls. Whinnying. Crying. The roof on fire. Dripping flame onto hay.

  “No way we can ride them,” I said. “Spooked to hell.”

  She wasn’t listening. I had no vote. She braved the haze. Breathed through her hand. Opened stall after stall. Horses fled. Hit the street to find more fire. Running where it wasn’t. Nowhere to go. Running in circles.