I made my way to the bathroom. I was hoping for a single room with a toilet and lock, but that wasn’t the case. The washroom was a long with a chess-patterned floor, housing two stalls and a set of urinals. There was a musky air freshener scent and a pair of ivory sinks with automated faucets. From the entrance, I could see a set of feet wearing raggedy gym shoes in the front stall. I heard Jumbo’s voice reminding me that everybody poops. I passed by the stall likely being used by kitchen staff and went into the neighboring lavatory. I sat on the lid of the throne and took a moment to consider my options.
First, I needed to confirm that it was in fact Dillinger sitting with the crowd of beautiful people. Freddy told me that a “blood god” would surround himself with the prettiest people and things, but I had to be sure. However, I couldn’t just trot over to the table and introduce myself. That would be really bad for my cover, especially since John Dillinger had seen my face before he freaking murdered me. I also couldn’t sit at the bar all evening waiting for Dillinger to leave as Luna was sitting ever so patiently in the van. Being a single parent is hard. There were only really two options. I could either assemble Old Lilith, burst into the sectioned area, and finish off Dillinger, likely getting killed in the process, or go check on Luna and wait outside with the van until I saw Dillinger leave.
It was about that time when my musings were interrupted by the main door of the bathroom opening again. A set of heavy footsteps constructed from iron stomped inside. I didn’t pay much mind until the Decepticon plodded directly in front of my stall.
“Ocupado,” I declared. No answer.
I studied the shoes, a pair of workman’s boots specially made for Sasquatch parked at my flimsy door. From the corner of my eye, I caught my neighbor’s raggedy gym shoes shift slowly from a sitting position to being pointed at the partisan between us.
Zoinks.
I walked my hand to Thing One, unclasping its cover band and removing it from the holster. Both sets of feet remained still. Without hesitation, I used the other hand to reach into my coat pocket and remove the silencer before screwing it on. Still nothing from the foot patrol. I pushed off the safety and pointed the gun toward the door.
Crash! The door broke from its hinges and smashed into me. Luckily, my face eagerly blocked it. I was stunned. My eyes watered. I could see the outline of a large man dragging the broken door out from my stall. The throbbing in my nose and lips was uncanny, stopping me from even the simplest of actions, like lifting my arm and pulling the trigger. I was doomed. Strangely, a cold substance snaked up my throat. My jaw forced itself open and a milky fog bloated upward, steaming into my eyes. The strange substance was doing something. Like the flip of a switch, my vision refocused, and the pain went away. I didn’t hesitate, locking onto my future murderer. The scarred German truck driver from the storage facility was staring me down—Yes, the same douchebag that had kept Luna as a prisoner.
Instinctually, my finger squeezed the trigger of Thing One, delivering three popping noises through the silenced barrel. The German truck driver’s chest spurt black blood, but the giant man didn’t budge. He stared down with a grimace before lifting his head and shaking it. I didn’t let him finish his scare tactics and fired four more times into his face. While one bullet went astray into the tile wall, the others struck true, hitting the truck driver in the cheek and nose. It was the final bullet however, the one that drove into the truck driver’s forehead that crossed his eyes and forced him to fall backwards.
I filed what had just happened under Time to Get the Hell Out of Here and jumped over the truck driver’s thick garbage can-sized leg. Shockingly, he was still waving his hands around, but struggled to put thoughts into action. I made my way to the door and was intercepted. I recognized the dirty shoes of my toilet neighbor as he tackled me, hurling me into the wall. It was orange flannel Charles Bronson. Now prone with Charles Bronson on top of me, I jabbed Thing One into his gut and unloaded my clip. Maggots poured onto my tailored suit, guaranteeing a dry-cleaning bill I couldn’t afford. Charles Bronson tried to grab at my throat with his open hands but was unable to reach due to my knee pressed in his chest. I kicked him off and leapt to my feet. Charles Bronson used one hand to scoop up the heaps of maggots into his gaping mouth while flailing his free arm at me.
My hand hovered over the bathroom door, but just as I was about to pull the handle, the door kicked back at me like a speeding car. The wood edge smashed into my hand, numbing it. I looked up and could see a handsome man with dark hair and pasty complexion looking me over with a glower. His silver pant leg didn’t quite lift as much as it flashed forward into my stomach. I doubled over, my guts churning with fire before John Dillinger himself pushed me onto my backside with the strength of ten men. Dillinger stepped into the bathroom so that the door shut behind him. He straightened his tie before bending down so his copper eyes met mine.
“You don’t give up easily do you, Abercrombie?” John Dillinger licked his bottom lip.
His eyes blazed red drawing my attention. As I studied them uncontrollably, my mind went slack.
“You can relax now though, Mr. Hitman,” he commanded. My spine loosened and my muscles slackened, rendering my body limp. “It will all be over soon.”
13
In 1931’s Dracula movie, Bela Lugosi waves his fingers in dramatic fashion at the camera before a gaffer dims the set lamps and a production assistant beams a flashlight over the actor’s eyes. Only then can Dracula deliver his hypnotic gaze to his victim. That’s what I’d been expecting from Dillinger should he try to hypnotize me.
Unfortunately, for yours truly that wasn’t the case at all. In a split second, the slick monkey’s flashing red pupils pulled me under his spell. It felt as if I were falling asleep with my eyes open. The stress in my neck released and my muscles relaxed. My conscience quieted to a squeak, able to think but not act. Dillinger commanded me to return my weapon to its holster. I watched from my hazy state as my body obeyed. Subsequently, Dillinger instructed me to follow him out of the bathroom. As if sleepwalking, my rubbery legs passed through the restroom exit, through the back hall down a staff stairwell, and into a creepy basement.
Basements in Chicago are nearly ubiquitous. I was told once that it was because frozen soil below a structure in wintertime can crack a structure’s surface. They come in two varieties. The first version is the suburban remodeled den that comes with a bar, couch, and half bath. It’s where most parents hide to wrap Christmas presents or have sex while kids play video games upstairs. The second type is your classic haunted murder cellar. It’s where pools of excess rain ferment along the dirty cement floor and spiders grow to be as big as house cats. I was in the latter.
My lazy conscience tried to catalogue everything in the basement while Dillinger tied me to a lounge chair with an extension cord. There was an octopus-style furnace with arms that stretched over the ceiling, a rusty washer-and-dryer set, and fifty or more kegs with tubes leading upward into the first-floor bar. The kegs hissed and puffed as the compressor pushed the gold ale through clear tubes via compacted air tanks. Perhaps most fascinating, though, was a black turn of the century safe sitting behind Dillinger. It was waist high with reinforced steel, a worn turn dial and the gold words Trumbull Safe & Vault Co. inscribed across the surface.
I must have been in the basement I’d seen the beer man delivering kegs to this morning. When I’d scouted earlier in the day, I had noticed a trap door that led to the front sidewalk off of North Damen Avenue. I searched for the exit, and sure enough, spotted a hydraulic lift with a simple control mechanism hovering below a set of metal doors that withdrew to my salvation. If only I could shake myself from Dillinger’s grip.
I heard the cry of the worn basement stairs as several more visitors stopped by to say hello. In addition, an anodic buzz followed by thumps told me something with electric wheels struggled to climb down each step. Maybe it was a power dolly hauling a refrigerator that they were going to store me in. Dillinge
r continued to stare at me as our guests ambled behind him. Charles Bronson came into sight first, a patch of duct tape along his belly. He was followed by the German truck driver, who still had several bullet holes leaking oil. The ogre-man walked over to Dillinger and handed over a tome wrapped halfway in silk cloth. Finally, the dark-haired hostess and Ken Doll came into view. They still had their creepy game show host smiles on as they studied me, but as I inspected them in the light, I noticed pale complexions and Rosie the Riveter Band-Aids along their wrists.
“Oh wow,” the hostess blurted. “You have him all tied up. Nicely done, sir.”
“Very nicely done, sir,” Ken Doll repeated.
“Is this him?” Dillinger asked as he tucked the mystery book under his arm, his swirling red eyes still on me.
“Absolutely, sir.” Ken Doll nodded. “He was watching the building all morning.”
“No doubt,” added the hostess. “That’s him.”
The German truck driver dug into his breast pocket with his cigar-sized fingers. He plucked out a pair of D batteries, removed them from the packaging, and swallowed them like jagged pills. He pressed his bunched fist to his heart and winced before sparks flared from his bullet holes. I watched as the wounds sealed up and disappeared, leaving only singed holes in his clothing.
The Duracell Rabbit finally has competition.
Meanwhile Dillinger picked up my satchel. The warm burn of panic set into my chest.
“Now, Abercrombie.” Dillinger stared at me. “I’m going to release you from my gaze so I can concentrate on the little conversation we’re about to have. Let it be known no one can hear you down here. Screaming or doing anything stupid will likely end in you being my next meal.”
Dillinger snapped his fingers; his eyes went from neon, almost firetruck red to pale copper. I could feel my body wake up from its stupor, but I didn’t yell or try to wiggle myself free. Dillinger turned his back to me and approached the safe. Several clicks rang before he twisted the handle open. He placed the book inside next to a large stack of cash and a small pistol. He was about to shut the safe door when he suddenly paused.
“Let’s see if I should put anything else into here,” Dillinger declared as he opened the satchel. “Oh, Mr. Hitman, I’m disappointed.” Dillinger picked up Old Lilith’s scope. “I thought you knew already. Guns can’t kill me.” He continued this search, digging through my fake I.D.’s. “You did know that—didn’t you.” He narrowed his eyes as he read my fake license. “Mr… Shaw?”
“I know,” I said dryly, “but a stake through the heart just doesn’t sing the same beautiful song as a long-distance rifle.”
“Well, you have a point there.” Dillinger continued to despoil the contents in my bag, tossing out the fake laptop cover that hid several clips for Thing One and Thing Two. “So,” he sighed while tossing my mag light on the ground. “I have a problem. You see, you’ve tried to kill me twice now, which means that I’m bringing a lot of heat.”
“Let me pretend I care,” I shrugged. The German truck driver raised his massive hand to slap me, but John waved him down.
“No, Adam,” Dillinger commanded. “That would be foolish. Mr. Shaw here needs all of his teeth to tell me who hired him.”
“Funny story,” I said dryly. “Because I was actually hired by two separate people to kill you.” Dillinger cocked his head back.
“Really?” he inquired with fake enthusiasm in his voice. “Please explain.”
“Buddy,” I sighed. “I don’t have the time or the crayons to explain it to you.” Adam growled.
“It’s okay.” Dillinger’s eyes stayed on me as he waved off Adam. “He’s just yapping his gums. Everyone does it at first,” John continued, this time through a toothy grin. It was the first time I’d noticed that John was sporting a pair of sharp, polished canine teeth. “Besides,” John put all of my equipment back into the satchel, “I kind of like him.”
“Aw. John,” I cooed. “I’m starting to like you too. Unfortunately, I still have to kill you.” Now I know what I was doing seems foolish, but it was all part of the plan. I was fishing for violence. I wanted someone to whack the hell out of me. I wanted to fall over in my chair, gasping several times as I wiggled around. That’s because Dillinger used an extension cord to bind me. The wire had a polished waterproof plastic coating over it that could be loosened. All I needed was some sort of cover in order to start squirming myself free. Unfortunately, Dillinger didn’t take the bait, yet.
“Mr. Shaw.” Dillinger licked his incisor. “My car headlights are brighter than your future if you keep this up.”
“Why don’t you just flash your eyes again and compel the answers out of me?” I asked while wiggling my arms a bit to loosen my bindings.
“I wish it worked that way, Mr. Shaw.” Dillinger clucked his tongue. “I’d have the one percent’s savings in my account by supper. Now, let’s stop yappin’ and talk business. There’s a slight chance I could let you go.” I laughed. “No, really. I may need you to send your employer a message, but first, I’m going to need some cooperation. So, let’s try again. Who hired you?”
I thought about it. It totally felt like Idaho-Face had set me up. Why was I protecting her? Besides, this could be a golden opportunity to learn a little more about her. As for ratting Death out, well, to call myself an idiot for doing something like that would be an insult to stupid people everywhere. Let’s hope one name would be enough.
“You know what.” I gave Dillinger a once-over. “I like you, so I’m going to cooperate.” Dillinger’s expression hardened. Adam shook his head and sighed. I paused, waiting for everyone’s initial doubt to clear. “If you’re telling me I could live by squawking on the people that sent me after a damn vampire then you’ve captured my interest. Obviously, those people didn’t want me to survive. Cross my heart and hope to not die.”
“Okay, Mr. Shaw,” Dillinger said plainly. “I’m all ears.”
“I mostly work with repeat clients,” I confessed. “It’s safer that way. They can be trusted since you have dirt on them. However, the bills piling up on my coffee table aren’t going to pay themselves. So, foolish me, I took a risk and met with a new client. Now, if you’re going to ask her name, let me stop you right there because I don’t know it. I never ask and they never tell.”
“Naturally.” Dillinger forced a smile.
“She did have something about her, though, that was very distinct,” I added.
“Oh?” Dillinger’s brow raised.
“Yeah.” I slowly wiggled my arms. “The entire time that this woman was detailing your whereabouts, I just couldn’t stop staring. It’s not because she was a beauty, though I do love Latinas.” I winked at the hostess. Her smile twisted into a frown. Adam, the stitched face giant, didn’t budge. “No, the reason I was staring at her this entire time was because she had a birthmark on her face shaped like Idaho.”
John tried to keep a poker face, but his lip quivered ever so slightly. He looked back to Adam, who was far less subtle. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he gnashed his teeth. His fists tightened, cracking bone. I could tell that I was starting to distract them.
“I’m guessing you know her?” I looked down from the bridge of my nose. “Maybe an old girlfriend of Adam’s? Nah, maybe not.” Adam stomped forward, ready to kill. “Nothing personal, Big Guy. I’m just saying that the last time I saw something like you, I flushed it down the toilet.”
“That’s it,” he seethed in his ridiculously thick accent. “I’m going to break his neck.” His hands opened up like a crab to squeeze my head off, but Dillinger’s quick reflexes stopped him. In a flash, Dillinger was grasping Adam’s wide wrists with both hands and pulling him backwards.
“Adam, stop,” Dillinger ordered with the first real sound of fire in his voice. “This is my final warning. You can go upstairs if you’re getting upset.”
“He’s mocking us.” Adam punched his fist into his other palm.
“I know.” Dill
inger rubbed his temples. “It’s intentional, and you’re playing right into it.” Dillinger was cleverer than I’d thought. I wasn’t dealing with some ordinary ex-gangster-gone-undead. He had nearly a century of experience under his wing. I crossed my fingers that he didn’t know exactly what I was up to, but my gut feeling told me he had an idea.
“Was würdest du mich tun lassen?” Adam spouted in a low throaty octave.
That’s it. Should I survive this, I’m taking German.
Dillinger responded, matching the tongue. Adam nodded and then waved the group to follow him. Charles Bronson, the Hostess, and Ken Doll trailed after Adam up the stairs. I couldn’t decide whether my escape plan had just improved or worsened. Once the basement door was shut and the muffled customers on the first floor could no longer be heard, Dillinger, who was as still as a coiled cobra, reacted. He grabbed another cocktail chair from a stored stack along the wall and placed it across from me. He sat down and smirked.
“Sorry about that.” Dillinger shifted his weight on the chair. “Adam has seen a lot, and it has shortened his temper.”
“It doesn’t help that he’s undead garbage.” I bucked. “Like you.”
“I’d argue that he’s not undead at all,” Dillinger said nonchalantly. “I’d contend that he’s more human than you or I, Mr. Shaw.” Dillinger crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.
He was talking to me as if we were having coffee, which frightened me. When a dangerous individual with considerable secrets starts opening up to you like you’re Ann Curry, chances are you’re about to die. “You see, Adam was created by human hands long ago, the eighteenth century to be precise. His maker was a real piece of work, so Adam liberated himself. Since then, the poor guy has wandered Bavaria, Geneva, and the Arctic exploring what it is that truly makes man who he is. When he decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, he took that all popular boat ride to the Americas.” I wasn’t the sharpest spear on the rack, but I knew historical horror novels when I heard them. It was hard to believe that the scarred pro-wrestler I’d been poking fun at was who Dillinger said he was.
A Dead-End Job Page 11