Black Creek

by Dan Kemp

  Dorian looked around the courtyard, which was mostly just grass with a couple trees, a beat-up old picnic table, and two benches.

  "What's that look for?" Dorian said, seeing James in the corner of his eye.

  James laughed. "Nothing. It just never fails to amaze me how full of shit you are."

  "I take that as a compliment."

  "I know you do. But it only half was."

  The chief returned, and they entered the other building. Here they were immediately greeted by activity as they passed through what the chief explained to be the center of their general operations unit. "Here we coordinate patrol, traffic enforcement, that sort of thing in all the city zones. But, here, I'd like to show you something special."

  The three men left the room, going down a short hallway, up a set of stairs, and down another longer hallway. As they passed them, the chief pointed out the Narcotics, Homicide, and Arson squads. Finally they stopped at a plain door. "This is brand new," he said. "Have you followed any crime reports lately?"

  "Can't say I have. All the negative news is too much for me," Dorian replied.

  "Well, it turns out that over the past few years there has been a surge of vigilante activity. Beatings, a handful of murders. One of our bright young detectives thought she saw a pattern, thinking we might have a serial case on our hands. As of just a few days ago, we authorized her to run a special investigation unit, the first we’ve had in years. Not possible without your support."

  As he spoke, the door opened and a young woman came out. "Ah, here she is," the chief said.

  She was somewhat plain looking, but attractive in a way, Dorian thought. She wore her brown hair back in a ponytail, and a few freckles dotted her face. At the moment, she looked somewhat startled.

  "Chief," she said.

  "Gentlemen, this is Detective Jessica Neil. Detective, this is Dorian Black, who you may recall made a large donation to the department recently."

  Dorian smiled and put his hand out. The detective took it. "Dorian," she said, her eyes briefly somewhat distant, then she smiled herself.

  "Any luck so far?" Dorian said.

  "Couple of leads. Nothing we can say publicly."

  "Well, I wish you luck. If we can help in any way, my door is always open to you," Dorian said, looking at the chief.

  "Thank you, sir," the chief answered. "I wouldn't worry. We all have faith in Detective Neil and her team."

  The young woman smiled, not at her boss, but still at Dorian.

  ***

  "I'll have my usual."

  "Very good, sir." The waiter scooped up Dorian's menu and quickly disappeared. The restaurant was dim, most of its light coming from a single candle on each table. The far wall was a full-size window offering a stunning view of the city from the restaurant's perch on the mountain. Night had fallen, and now the skyscrapers were lit with scattered office lights which reflected off the river below.

  He and James sat at a private table overlooking the rest of the dining room. Across the table, James nursed his drink and stared out at the city. Dorian appreciated the view well enough, but was even happier for the table's isolation from the other diners.

  Dorian grabbed a piece of bread from the middle of the table, then dragged it across a plate of pesto. "How about that girl detective back there? Think she was just starstruck, or did she have a little crush?"

  James looked at him with a rare smirk, one eyebrow raised. "What makes you say that?"

  "I have a way with people," Dorian said, still chewing his bread.

  James laughed. "That you do. Although I'll never understand how. She didn't like you. First of all, she doesn't like men. And she didn't even know who you are."

  The latter of these revelations hit Dorian much harder than the others, but he wouldn't let that on. "Shame, that," he said, taking another bite of bread.

  Dorian considered himself a pretty good reader of people, but he was no match for James. Many times he had seen the man silently listen to someone else speak for just a few minutes before being able to guess profoundly intimate details of their life and personality. It was damn near like a party trick.

  Once, years ago, James had even done it to him. "I've known a lot of men," Dorian remembered him saying. "But you are easily the angriest man I've ever met."

  A waiter wordlessly placed a salad in front of James. "Why do you care, anyway?" he asked, picking up his fork. "In all the years I've known you, you've never been in a relationship."

  "Women offer so many wonderful things, why waste your time with a relationship?" For all his intuition, James always seemed oblivious to this particular facet of Dorian's life. Indeed it was one of the few sources of conflict between the two men. Sometimes Dorian would tire of his friend's judgmental looks whenever Dorian came or went from the penthouse with the latest young woman.

  "You might know that yourself if you ever went to see that wife of yours. Or, you know, have her come here."

  "It's a little more complicated than that."

  "So you always say."

  "Anyway, since you brought it up. That detective is going to be a problem."

  Dorian nodded. "Probably. But that's what we do. Make problems go away."

  "I would prefer that you didn't make this one go away in your usual way."

  "We'll see what sort of approach the situation requires. I'm open minded," Dorian said, leaning back in his chair.

  "Let me handle it."

  Dorian shrugged. "What's to handle? That goddamn chief owes me so much he doesn't even begin to understand it. I tell him to cut the investigation, it's gone."

  "Might want to be a bit more subtle than that."

  Dorian leaned forward on his elbows. "My man, I am the king of subtlety." James laughed, harder than Dorian had heard in a while.

  "There you go," Dorian said. "Finally lightening up a little. You know you've been a fucking downer, lately?"

  James twirled his fork between his fingers, apparently thinking. "Let me ask you something as well. Why all the charity? I've thought about this for a long time. I understand why you want to go out every night, prowl around for criminals, beat them within an inch of their life or worse. But why bother with the nice guy act? Is it just a front, to protect you? Or is it to inflate your ego? Dorian Black, the beloved billionaire. Or is it the power? You think these people can't protect themselves, so they need a protector. I could really understand that. Yet you look down on them. That's what I don't get."

  Dorian grabbed another piece of bread. "How many times have you asked me that question?"

  James sighed. "Seventy five."

  "That's what I thought. Anyway, what if it's all of the above?"

  "Maybe it is. But I still feel like there's more to it."

  "Just because you don't understand it, doesn't make it untrue. Some things might just be beyond even your comprehension."

  "You're only a man, Dorian."

  "Yeah, and we both know you're something more,” he said with a snort. “So don't be too hard on me."

  The waiter arrived with their food. He stood behind Dorian quietly as he sliced into his steak, revealing a perfect medium rare. He thanked the waiter, who left once again.

  "You want to know what I actually think?" Dorian said, pausing to swallow a piece of steak. James was cutting into his own food, but his expression encouraged him to go on.

  "I learned a lot of things over there in Kuwait. You and me both did. But the biggest thing is, when I came home, I can't hardly stand to look at these people anymore. Half of them," Dorian swung his arm, gesturing over the balcony at the diners below. "They haven't got a fucking clue. They have no idea what the world is really like. How close this whole stupid thing is to falling apart. And if all this, modern civilization, ever falls down each and every one of them is completely unprepared to survive in a world without men like me."

  "Ah, there's the missing piece," James said. "Bitterness."

  "Call it what you want. People today think the
y have fucking problems because their phone doesn't work, or they can't afford every single luxury they feel entitled to. Or when a dozen people get killed by some crazy assholes halfway across the world, Americans just love jerking themselves off over how sad they are. The truth is we're fucking weak. One person dies in a hospital and Americans want to sue their doctor. Tell that to the hundred million people who died of the Spanish Flu. Ask the millions of people killed and raped by Genghis Khan if they felt empowered in their lives.

  "People today have absolutely no perspective. The world is a shit place. Always has been, always will be. People think we’re one good presidency away from a fucking utopia. People think broadcasting how soft you are is a goddamned virtue. Something bad's gonna happen eventually. You might as well be ready for it."

  "You know," James said. "I think that's the most honest you've been with me in a long time."

  Dorian sipped his drink. “Do you disagree?”

  “No,” James said. “But I don’t entirely agree either.”

  A commotion seemed to begin down below. A louder hum of chatter could be heard, and some of the diners were turning toward the door beneath where Dorian sat. Now some flashes could be seen as patrons aimed their phone cameras toward whatever had caught their interest.

  A moment later, an entourage of men emerged from beneath the balcony. Two muscular, black-suited men made way for the group, as two other bodyguards took positions on opposite ends of the room. In the midst of them all there was a tall, lean man, muscular in his own way, though dwarfed by his attendants. As he walked he paused to shake hands or take photos with a few groups of diners.

  "Well, I'll be damned," James said, dropping his fork and peering down.

  "Who’s that?" Dorian asked.

  James looked at him. "Of course you wouldn't know. That's Martin Singh."

  Below, Martin was gladhanding around a table of elderly men and women. As he left to take his seat, one of the men shouted. "You've got my vote!"

  "Ah," Dorian said, chewing a piece of steak. "You still have to tell me why you want to kill him."

  ***

  The night air was dry and cold. The two men stood on a small viewing platform next to the restaurant. On the street behind them, another suited man stood an unmoving guard next to a limousine.

  "So what is it?" Dorian said.

  James looked troubled. He wore a thick hooded sweatshirt and leaned forward on the metal railing. He didn't answer for a while.

  "It's personal," he finally said.

  "Yeah, I had figured that out."

  They were quiet for a time, watching the city below. A few chunks of ice floated down the river. Somewhere, a police siren came and went.

  "Look, man," Dorian said. "Maybe I haven't been the best friend recently. I'm not good at this shit, you know that. But I owe you my life. If you say this Martin guy has to go, I'll follow you. I'm just trying to say, you can tell me about it. If you want."

  "You don't owe me anything," James said.

  "You can keep saying that."

  "He killed my friend. It might not have been by his hand, but he killed him. He's not the good man he pretends to be."

  Dorian clapped him on the back. "That's it then. We'll deal with him easily enough."

  James looked sideways at him. "It won't be easy. He's about to be elected president."

  "Wouldn't be the first head of state we took down."

  James laughed, still looking unconvinced. "Yeah. But this will be different."

  "I'm sure that's true. We got it, though."

  "Thanks," James said.

  At some point, the limousine had left. A few diners were still filing out of the restaurant and down the sidewalk. A barge crawled its way down the river.

  "Hell of a view," James said. "I've always loved it."

  "It is nice. Could do with some snow."

  James laughed softly, stood up. "You're right about that." James closed his eyes, letting his hands rest on the railing in front of him. His eyes still closed, he smiled. Then he opened them once again.

  The two men stood there for a while, looking down over the city as a soft snow began to fall.

  Joseph

  As a child, Joseph had always feared his father. Fortunately for him, the man was rarely home, even before he became mayor. After that, as he recalled, most nights he would spend alone with his mother, and he preferred it that way. Sometimes Joseph would hear his father come home late, occasionally highlighted by the muffled sounds of a hushed argument on the other side of the wall.

  It never seemed particularly strange to him at the time, and his mother would never speak of it other than to say that his father was very busy but that he wished he could be home with them more often. Later experience would teach him that although being mayor was a difficult job, it rarely actually required him to be away from home into the middle of the night.

  When Thomas Brooker was home, he usually spent his evenings sitting quietly by the fire, drinking. If Joseph had to approach him, he would do so with a great deal of trepidation. That isn’t to say Joseph had no fond memories of his father, but most of those came from his teenage years. After Joseph's mother got sick, and later died, his father did become somewhat more attentive. He was still the same man though, and by this time Joseph was old enough to realize what was happening on the nights he heard his father sneak out of the house, after he thought Joseph was asleep.

  When Joseph was fifteen, his father called him into the lounge one evening. Even at this age, Joseph felt anxious at the prospect of sitting down beside the man, the crackling fire reflected in his stoic eyes, casually twirling brandy around in his glass. He had been seeing another woman, he said. It had been several years since his mother passed away, after all. He hoped for them to meet soon.

  There was no question there, no request for approval. The relationship didn't last, but the damage was quickly done. The woman, it turned out, was the wife of a local tailor named Roger Shaw. Their marriage didn't last long either. Exactly what effect this had on their son, a local ne'er-do-well of Joseph's age named Jonah, was hard to say.

  Though the boy was no pillar of the community before, his behavior began to escalate, eventually culminating in his exile from the town a year later.

  ***

  "What do you want now?"

  Joseph started. He found himself inside the police station, which was presently empty aside from the prisoner in the cell in front of him. His head was still reeling, and some of what had come before was a blur to him. He remembered leaving his office, going to the clinic to see Hank. Things got fuzzy there.

  "The man on the roof, they took him alive," he recalled Hank saying. How he had gotten here from there, he couldn’t quite remember.

  Joseph pushed open the cell door and entered. A young man sat shackled to a bench on the far wall, eyes closed, his bloodied chin resting on his chest. As Joseph approached, the man opened his eyes. Joseph didn't respond, but stood a foot away from the man, examining his bruised and swollen face. He was still fairly sure he didn’t recognize him. The man wore the same style of leather gear as Jonah's other lackeys did.

  "What's your name?" Joseph asked.

  "Peter," he said. "Who are you?"

  "I'm the mayor. Joe."

  "What do you want, Joe? I already told the damn sheriff everything."

  "It took him a bit of effort, from the look of things," Joseph said. "Problem is, I have a mind to know as well."

  "Well, I'm not feeling much up to resisting any more. So what do you want to know?"

  "Shame," Joseph said. "Where is Jonah?"

  Some blood had been pooling on the bridge of Peter's nose and now began to drip. He shook his head a bit, sending a few drops of blood to the floor. "The old ironworks," he finally said.

  "What’s his plan?"

  "If he has one, he wouldn't have told us. Didn't seem to be any grand design. A robbery here, a kidnapping there. Just looking for a payday, which is fine enough for
most of us. What's your plan, Joe?"

  "To kill him."

  "I see. Well, good luck I guess. Doesn't make much of a difference to me anymore. Why?"

  "You people killed my wife."

  Some of the color drained from Peter's face. "Oh. Most of us didn't like the way of that. For what it's worth."

  "It ain't worth shit." Joseph put his hand on the man's shoulder, hauled back and punched him in the gut. The man grunted, retched, and vomited onto the floor. Bloody streaks highlighted the bile.