A Dead-End Job

by Justin Alcala

I pulled the trigger, firing three times. Silencers aren’t like in the movies. There’s no little chirp. The action of the gun calls out, but it’s muffled. The faint echo hit my ears almost as quickly as The Mad Knight blinked out of existence. The trio of bullets cracked the pink tile behind him. I guided the pistol throughout the room but there was no one there. The son of a bitch had vanished.

  I looked at the cracked ceramic. If Thing One was ever recovered by authorities, I’d be inculpated for Freddy’s murder, but I could care less at the moment. Luna was in danger. Rosita, Dub, and the hag children were coming for her. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  I had to hurry.

  I scooped up the hot shells in a weak attempt to clean up my trail and bolted out of Freddy’s apartment. The lyrics from The Mad Knight’s tune haunted me. I hightailed it from the complex to the sedan and sped home. I was fifteen minutes from the apartment, ten if I drove like Mad Max. I finally understood what that weight saddled on my shoulders was when I first arrived. My gut was trying to tell me that I was falling for a trap and that Luna was now in trouble.

  19

  The front door stood cracked open, and the salt line had been split in two. There was no one in my floor’s hallway. Though even if there were, it wouldn’t have stopped me from removing Thing One and Two before storming inside. I cleared the front room. I could see creepy little footprints along the salted carpet from tiny Oxfords. It appeared the spring-loaded spears had done their job. Vibrant red blood colored the tip of a butcher knife duct taped to a mop handle. A trail of the same candy apple gore dribbled into my kitchen. There were tiny bloody handprints on the linoleum kitchen floor accompanied by drag marks. I tried not to slip on the puddle and moved into the hallway toward the bedroom and bathroom. The trap near my bedroom window hadn’t been triggered, which means that they’d only entered near the front of the apartment, the same section Dub and Rosita had explored during their visit.

  I spun around to the bathroom. At first glance it appeared shut, but a light push on the surface revealed that the lock had been smashed and the door hem pried open. Someone, or something, had applied enough pressure to slip their little fingers into the pleat between the threshold of the wood and then pushed hard. I nudged the reinforced door with my foot hoping to find Luna huddled in the tub but fearing I’d only find her remains. I didn’t know how I’d cope with the latter, but I found neither. A discarded hammer saturated in bright blood rested atop the pillows I’d softened the tub with, but Luna was gone. She’d put up a fight, but had been taken nonetheless.

  My eyes welled with tears. I leaned on the bathroom wall and slid down into a heap. A stockpile of anguish soaked within my bones let go, pouring acrid heartache into every bit of my body. I planted my face in my hands and wept. Crying was foreign to me, especially the blubbering I was letting out. I didn’t know how long it lasted, but when I finally came to, my knees were in my chest and my hands dug into my armpits. Evening shadows had fallen over the apartment. I cowered in a half-trance for another minute before coming to my senses.

  My knuckles, which trembled on the stash of assorted items beneath my breast coat pocket, rubbed against a sharp paper corner. I dug inside and removed the business card from Selena. It was a handout for The Violet Hour complete with business hours and a general line. There was a management extension underlined in red pen.

  Am I really about to call one enemy to deal with another?

  I simmered in the idea. I’d been doing nothing but making enemies my entire life.

  Enemies were easy. They couldn’t betray you. If I really wanted Luna back, I’d have to earn it the hard way. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number.

  “Hello,” Selena’s perky voice greeted. I wiped my eyes and took a breath.

  “Selena,” I said hoarsely. “I’m ready to talk.”

  “That’s great, friend. I’ve talked to John earlier. He’d love to meet with you. How about you come by—”

  “Tell John to meet me at 400 North Lake Shore Drive.”

  “Uh.” Selena hesitated. “There isn’t anything there.”

  “False. There’s a half-block hole for the Chicago Spiral Tower. Funding died. Construction stopped. It’s a metaphor for the hole that I’m in.”

  “Oh,” Selena hummed. There was another pause. I assumed she’d put me on mute. “Okay, that will work, Mr. Shaw.”

  “It’s Buck.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Buck. Will midnight work for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fantastic,” she said with a giggle at the end. I wanted to smash her lips through the receiver but reminded myself I was making friends. “Anything else?”

  “I’d ask for him to come alone, but I know that won’t happen.”

  “I see. I’ll let him know.”

  “Great. I’ll see you tonight then.”

  “See you tonight, friend.”

  I pressed the red button that ended the call and tossed my phone on the bathroom floor. I felt like shit. The apartment was so quiet that it hurt my ears. There were no cartoons on the television or talking toys. I remembered this pain. The vacuum of nothingness that sucks out any other glint of life. It was the same silence after Denise had been murdered that had broken me quickly and driven me temporarily insane. There was only one way to escape. I needed to fix what I’d done.

  I dragged myself off the floor and went into my room. I took inventory of everything that was even slightly considered an instrument of war and placed it along my bed. Along with Old Lilith, Thing One and Two, I added my old M40A3 long range rifle, a .22 revolver I kept beneath my pillow, and the Mayan knife I’d recovered from Freddy’s studio. I grabbed the modern fit trench coat I’d bought myself for my birthday and packed it with every clip I’d stashed in the alcove under the closet. I shoved parts of the M40A3 on top of Old Lilith and in my jacket and then put the entire ensemble on. It was heavy, but manageable.

  When I was done, I went back into the bathroom and pulled my electric clippers out of the drawer. I stared at the bedraggled collection of pillows in the tub while I plugged the shaver into a socket. The clippers buzzed. I brought it to my head and started shaving hair off my scalp. I turned to my reflection. My milky eye and bomb scars were more definite, as if they’d been highlighted with neon. I stared down the fool with a fresh buzz cut, dignifying that I’d gone all 2007 Britney Spears.

  “It’s Britney, bitch,” I jeered at my reflection and threw the clippers in the sink.

  Shortly after, I grabbed the keys for the sedan and left into the summer night. The drive downtown was tolerable for a Friday. Maybe time passed quicker because I was so preoccupied fantasizing about bludgeoning Dub, Rosita, and The Mad Knight to death. The screams they’d shriek would be heard in Kankakee.

  Once I arrived in the Loop, I made my way toward a quiet parking lot where Lake Michigan and the Chicago River met. The parking lot was rarely used and sat on the opposite end of the river, directly parallel to my target, The Chicago Spiral Tower’s pit. The abandoned cars and illegally docked boats coated in dust were a testament to the parking lot’s seclusion.

  The day had caught up to me. I had a few hours before the meeting, so once I ensured that I wasn’t being watched within the parking grounds, I lowered the driver seat and tried to fall asleep. My mind raced to Luna. She was a tough kid, but it hurt to think how scared she might be. I took solace in knowing that they didn’t want any information from her. Luna was a bargaining chip, a hostage. She shouldn’t be harmed. Still, I wouldn’t put anything past monsters like Rosita and Dub.

  I don’t know when I faded into sleep, but there was no dreaming. My body was too tired for that. There was only blackness and purpose. I woke up to my phone buzzing. I fumbled to answer but was too late. The alert told me I’d missed a call from Jumbo. Fake Jumbo. I thought about calling back and telling Dub that I was going to hang him with his own intestines, but then it dawned on me. Dub didn’t know that the real Jumbo lived. Dub also didn’t
know that I’d been told the truth about the imposter. Dub was likely calling to play an angle. I needed to avoid a knee jerk reaction and think about how I’d respond. For now, I’d text and buy time.

  Minor setback, I texted. In the field. Call you soon.

  Please do, Fake Jumbo replied, adding an emoji sad face.

  I checked the time and realized that I’d been out for hours. The harbor’s parking lot was still empty. I decided to make my way to the Chicago Spiral’s hole and scout it out before I met Dillinger. I used the Lakefront Trail along Lake Michigan to access the bridge spanning over the Chicago River. The overpass was mostly for cars but had a thin pedestrian walkway that few people knew about. I crossed the platform sitting above the spinach green waterway and stopped at a blocked off stairwell that led down to the construction site. I ignored the trespassing signs and made my way down. The hole was still surrounded by a block-long construction fence. It had been years since the wired barricade was cared for. There were multiple gaps one could widen or slip past to gain access. The only complication was the various residential skyscrapers encompassing the abandoned development. Any spectator from the fifth-floor gym to the fifty- fifth-floor office of the neighboring high-rises could see me should they just so happen to be gazing down at the barren development. I couldn’t risk it. Luckily, I’d thought ahead.

  I removed a set of clothing kept blanketed over Old Lilith’s satchel. After I pet out the wrinkles, I donned the yellow CPD traffic vest complete with a peaked cap. I completed the look with a long metal Maglite. Once my master disguise was complete, I left the cover of the lot and made my way to a large gash in the fence. I pretended to inspect the incision, knowing anyone from a high-rise could be watching. The gate looked as if a truck had backed into it, stretching a hole wide enough for a person to fit. I made my way through and walked to the hole.

  I’d found the place on Google Maps during a particularly boring night. The man-made crevice was at least six stories deep and wide enough to land a football field in it. There were steel crates, a rusted bulldozer bucket, and grime-covered construction helmets scattered throughout the bottom. It was as if the crew had just never returned from a lunch break. A twenty-foot-tall silo-shaped structure that looked like a water tower sat inside with an abandoned toolbox on top. I had no idea of the steel cylinder’s purpose, but decided to meet Dillinger at the bottom of its legs. There was a bar ladder built in the cement crown of the Spiral’s hole that reached the full six stories down. I carefully descended, trying to balance all the weight from my Punisher arsenal. The climb took five minutes. I lit a cigarette in celebration. A swarm of fat rats scurried away from the light. Even Midwest vermin were overweight here.

  I’d used to have one bad eye, but the other one had always compensated for its twin’s faults. I was a terrible shot with pistols but put a rifle with sights in front of me and I was as accurate as hindsight. The same was true when I was scanning distances. I’d been trained for years. Even now when I closed my formerly impaired eye and used my strong one to compare landmarks, motion, and subtle idiosyncrasies, I could pick up on a fly playing hide and seek.

  I spotted Dillinger’s silhouette standing on the lip of the hole almost immediately. The guy was dead, but it was still unnerving just how still he could be. The soft lakeshore air wavered his hair and coat ever so slightly. I gestured with my cigarette hand, creating a dancing firefly in the night. Two pinpricks of light flickered from Dillinger’s eyes. There was a blur and then Dillinger was gone. I remembered that he was lightning fast when he wanted to be. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I reeled around with the Maglite and, as expected, Dillinger stood at arm’s length.

  “New haircut?” Dillinger jabbed as we exchanged glances. His dove-colored suit was custom tailored with a red Prada stripe on the vest. His irises shone an eerie hue of gold, the way candlelight flickers off of coins, and a set of mauve veins webbed around his neck. Tense with anxiety, I clicked back the hammer of the .22 hidden in my pants pocket. Dillinger must have known that I was edgy because he hurried to speak again. A set of jagged teeth protruded from beneath his thin lips. “It appears you’re not in the joking mood.”

  “No.”

  “You and me both, Abercrombie.” He pointed to his face. I narrowed my eyes. His skin was taught and sallow. The corners of his nostrils were painted with dark dry blood. It appeared Dillinger didn’t take his vitamins this morning.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “My clip joint is on lockdown.” Dillinger spat something black on the ground. “I don’t want to risk my volunteers, so let’s just say I’m going on a hunger strike.”

  “Why don’t you just eat some of your staff?”

  “I don’t do that, Buck,” he articulated. “It’s bad for business. Besides, Dub has been doing a good enough job knocking off my associates without any help.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jumbo told me you’re up to date. Dub has been using Death’s computer program to kill off all of my mortal allies. It’s making it tough to continue my operations.”

  “My heart aches for you,” I lipped while puffing my filtered killing machine.

  “I know I’m not your favorite, but maybe we can put it past us.”

  I grimaced in response.

  “If only temporarily.” Dillinger casually stretched his back. “You see, we’re at the height of a major predicament. Letting someone wield the power of death is bad business for everyone. Sure, at the moment Rosita and Dub are knocking off people that help keep my outfit operational, but it’s only a matter of time before they start doing worse.”

  “Not really my problem, John.”

  “No, it’s not, is it? You’re what we used to call a gunsel, a reckless gunman. You only care about your work. I can respect that. That is.” He halted, combing his hands through his greased hair. “Unless you’re not doing your job.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “I’m trying to tell you that we have a common set of enemies that need to be dealt with. They have me on the ropes, but you’re not far behind, Abercrombie. When your boss returns from his vacation, I’m sure he won’t be happy that you’ve helped give up his bailiwick.”

  “That is unless I join Rosita and Dub.” I dropped my cigarette and smashed it with my heel.

  “Okay, then why are you here, tough guy? Last I checked, you called us.”

  “They took Luna.” I frowned. Dillinger winced.

  “The little girl?” I crossed my arms and nodded. “That’s terrible.” I fluttered my eyes to push back tears. Dillinger’s forehead creased. We stood and listened to far off police sirens, waiting until they died down before continuing our conversation. “No matter what you choose, I’m honestly sorry. I hope you get her back.”

  “Yeah, well that’s why I’m here. You’re a resource. You seem to have an edge when it comes to numbers.”

  “It’s a slight edge, but it’s shrinking quick. A lot of our supporters are going dark. They just got through with a war. They don’t want another.”

  “Great.”

  “We do have one edge though that’s even more valuable than numbers.”

  “What’s that?” I asked while watching John remove his phone. His cold, dead finger was having trouble moving the interface, so after a few failed tries he removed a Stylus pen from his pocket. He chose the name Wheels from his contact list. He looked me over as it dialed. “We know more than they do.”

  The sound of Jumbo’s nasally Midwest voice answered the phone. “Yo, dude,” he greeted. “Bring the vehicles topside,” Dillinger said plainly.

  “Aye aye, Captain,” Jumbo replied.

  Dillinger put his phone in his jacket and began walking toward the bar ladder cemented to the wall. He took a step up before I interjected.

  “Wait,” I asserted. “I never said I was going to help you.”

  Dillinger smirked in the way historical photos had captured throughout the years.
“You didn’t have to.”

  I followed the vampire to the top of the Chicago Spiral’s hole. There were a pair of vehicles with dimmers on when I reached the surface. Both were black Mercedes C-Class sedans. Their windows were darkened to a shade of black that made it impossible to distinguish any passengers. Dillinger gave a carefree wave and walked to the C-Class closest to us, opening the back door and holding it open for me. I could hear the air conditioning inside blowing out.

  “Care to get some dinner?” Dillinger asked, his brows raised deviously. I closed my eyes and took a breath. I was between a rock and vampire. It was time to make a choice that for once didn’t make enemies. I opened my eyes back up and headed to the sedan.

  “I need to come back for my car,” I blurted like a helpless tween being picked up for a sleepover.

  “If you want, we can wait for you while you get your vehicle?”

  “No. I’d rather cry in a Mercedes than a Ford.”

  20

  The Chicago Water Tower was a historical landmark along the Magnificent Mile.

  Nowadays it’s the backdrop for expensive downtown shopping and site seeing, but in the nineteenth century, the eight hundred and fifty-nine foot building was vital for spotting fires. Boy, did they spot one. On October tenth of 1871, the Great Chicago Fire destroyed over three-square miles of the city. The Chicago Water Tower was one of the few buildings in the red zone left standing. Legend had it that when the flames reached the tower’s grounds, they’d parted and went around the building.

  It was after midnight when we rolled along 806 Michigan Avenue. The Chicago Water Tower roosted at the feet of the seventy-floor Park Tower, a skyscraper action-packed with fine dining, shopping, and the five-star Park Hyatt resort. We pulled up to the face of the hotel where two doormen in immaculate charcoal uniforms complete with kepi hats stood sentry. I’d never tried to pull up under the gold framed canopy lurched over the hotel for fear of rejection due to my car model alone. When Dillinger’s cars rolled in, the doormen leapt from their posts with the same eagerness as dogs greeting their masters.