“Good evening, Mr. Lawrence,” the smug voice of a smooth-faced doorman greeted.
“Oh.” He ducked his head back, taking in that I wasn’t Dillinger. “Apologies, sir.”
“It’s okay, Jacob,” John called out from his side of the car as a second doorman opened his door. “Can you just hold the cars for a few? We won’t be long.” Jacob tipped the brim of his cap. Ken Doll, who’d been driving our Mercedes, exited the car, dug in his jacket, and handed Jacob a large brick of neatly stacked bills. Jacob and his partner traded glances before Jacob tucked the money in his breast pocket.
“Of course, Mr. Lawrence,” Jacob saluted. “We’ll park them in the front.”
Dillinger’s entourage exited the second car. Selena withdrew from the driver’s seat, adorned in a flowing gown with a plush scarf and expensive looking boots. Her arms and neck were littered with loose jewelry. I didn’t know a lick about fashion, but she seemed to be crushing the Bohemian thrown-together look. With her was a tall man in a double-breasted camel plaid suit. He wore a beret and sunglasses. He had graphite skin with shades of rotted pickle along the creases of his Van Dyke beard and a nose that looked as if it had been gnarled by dogs. On his finger was a large gold signet ring that matched Dillinger’s. I couldn’t tell if he was staring at me but I could tell that he wasn’t good at disguising his undead condition. He looked like an undercover boogeyman.
Dillinger pressed his hands into his pants pockets and swaggered his way to the water tower seeded across the sub street, whistling as he did. I rolled my eyes before catching up to him. We crossed Tower Court, the small plaza of trees, grass, and planted flowers, toward the limestone walls at the base of the water tower. The castle-style building had been adapted into a boutique art museum for tourists. A sign across the door read Closed with the hours of operation below it. Ken Doll, Selena, and the mystery cannibal caught up to us as I peeked inside the window, pushing up on the tips of my toes. From the dim light of the security lamps were the framed original paintings of author and artist, Dr. Seuss.
“Please tell me we aren’t here to see The Cat in the Hat exhibit,” I lamented.
“No, Buck.” Dillinger combed his sharp fingers through his hair. “Though I’m sure that’s about your reading caliber.” I frowned. Dillinger snickered. Everyone else stood quiet. “I, too, am running out of safe places to talk given the circumstances.” Dillinger placed his index finger under his large canine tooth and bit down. There was an uncomfortable crunch. Dillinger traced his now bloody finger over the doorknob of the Tower’s entrance. “So, we are going to a place where measures have been taken to keep out every copper, stool pigeon, and wet sock there is.” A click came from the knob’s lock. The dim interior lights glowing from the Tower’s windows went dark. Dillinger turned the knob and the door opened. “Quickly now, Jumbo and Adam are waiting.” The group entered the blackness without a care in the world. I stood outside by myself.
“Time to stop making enemies,” I murmured under my breath. “Time to get Luna back.”
I stepped inside and like some haunted horror movie, the door shut behind me, leaving me bathed in darkness. I was half tempted to dig into the satchel and remove Old Lilith’s scope for its night vision but before I could, a cold hand took mine. It was small and soft. It tugged me and soon our feet were clapping on hard tile. I took note of our steps and the directions we turned as I trudged blindly. There was shuffling, the groan of metal, and the hiss of an air seal. I was tugged again and pulled toward a pinprick of tangerine light flickering at the bottom of a descending hall. I tread carefully, my heel finding a declining step. Soon the speck of light grew until it spread out along an arched doorway cascaded in Halloween orange. I followed the guiding hand through the threshold, where my eyes adjusted.
I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. We were in the foyer of what appeared to be a knockoff Parisian cafe. Orange light gleamed from globe-shaped bulbs crowned on chandeliers along the baroque-trimmed walls. The distant whoosh of an espresso maker and bad bistro accordion reverberated from the long coffee house. The distinct bouquet of coffee filled the air, though there was an odd trace of a metallic tang. There were round, walnut coffee tables running parallel along a polished mahogany bar. Two ceiling-high bookshelves shouldered a cramped, abandoned stage. Despite the grand décor, it was the patrons that I paid most attention to. Dressed in business suits and hipster garb alike were freaking vampires.
There was a gaggle of wan-skinned emo types caked in dark mascara with spider black apparel and brightly dyed hair. They had colorful tattoos inked on pale flesh, brightening their tortured art. Their eyes were brilliant shades of sapphire, emerald, and blazing white with pinprick pupils. A few had paint or clay stains along the fingers. All of them were frightfully beautiful like a belladonna bloom. Scattered between them were smaller bands of business types who waded in the dining hall like hungry crocodiles. Some read newspapers while others swiped tablets over steaming coffee. In the shadowy corners were twisted creatures with rubbery skin, bald, malformed heads, and bulging yellow eyes. Each had a grotesquely long pair of fangs protruding from the centers of their bat-like lips.
Dillinger led us to the back of the cafe toward a well-lit corner table surrounded by the Legion of Doom. Along with Adam, who was doing a terrible job of blending in with his worn leather jacket, ripped jeans, construction boots, and truck driver hat, was Jumbo. Jumbo had shaved and wore a t-shirt that read “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t want to come.” He perched on top of his scooter, balancing his laptop along the center of the handlebars. The trio looked up from their conversation, making room as we pulled up spare chairs from another table.
I moved my chair against the wall and studied the fastest route to the exit. I knew that I was already in the wolf’s den, but the soldier in me insisted. I scanned the group from left to right. They looked as excited as teens at a Barry Manilow concert. I stared back with my poker face. A distracted Dillinger peered near the register and waved someone over before rejoining the tension. He bit his bottom lip with a sharp canine, placing his twitchy palms on the tabletop as if to calm himself. He looked like he had fleas. Before I could fit a good one liner in, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Ken Doll and Selena stared at something next to me. I turned to see what it was, only to find a stock-still barista appear out of thin air.
“Mr. Dillinger,” the pasty woman caped in a green smock greeted. “Welcome back.” She had a streak of turquoise dyed into her pixie-styled haircut and a pin-sized nose ring. “We were excited to hear that you’d be joining us. The usual, sir?”
“Please,” Dillinger retorted. “Quickly if you could. I’m a little hungry.”
“Of course,” the barista responded. “Anyone else?” The hour was late, and I hadn’t eaten dinner. A good cup of joe and a muffin sounded divine.
“Is there a menu?” I butted in. The barista gave me a healthy dose of side eye, dug into her smock’s pouch, and planted a little black book into my hands. I ignored the judgment and read the list. There were typical categories like Espressos, Blended Beverages, and Cold Brews, but after reading the descriptions I quickly caught up to the horror novel set before me. There were blonde roasts, Americanos, and South American blends complete with blood types and ages. A sidebar promised that this cafe worked with farmers for one hundred percent ethically-sourced blood-coffee. It continued to blabber on about its commitment to pay fair wages for every organ harvester to build a better farming community. I must have had a distinct look on my face because everyone gawked, glared, or smirked.
“Do you just have regular coffee?” I clapped the menu shut and handed it over.
“Uh,” the barista hummed. “I’ll have to check the back.”
“Great,” I said dryly. “If there is, I’d just like a regular coffee, no blood or guts.”
The barista didn’t dignify me as she asked again, “Anyone else?” Everyone stayed quiet.
“G
reat, I’ll be back shortly.”
“Buck.” Dillinger waved a hand at the undercover boogeyman. “This is DuSable. Together we run the Negative-One Union.” DuSable bowed his head.
“Bonsoir.” DuSable bobbed his head.
“DuSable runs the Rigor Mortis Society,” Dillinger continued. “While I handle Algor Mortis.”
“Crud and blood,” DuSable piggybacked.
“That’s very nice,” I fussed, thinking of Luna in a trunk. “But this isn’t a book club. I now know who you all are. We all hate the crazy rebels. You don’t like them trying to topple your authority, and for me, they kidnapped my—” I held my tongue as I was about to say daughter. “Luna. That’s the main reason I’m debating helping you. So, what’s the plan?”
Jumbo straightened his broken glasses. “Dude, you really suck at introductions. Nonetheless, you’re right. There’s no time to waste. Let’s recap. John here, elder local vampire, used his resources to help other undead like DuSable dethrone a warlock who was running Chicago’s supernatural community with an iron fist. Since then, John has made enemies with the remnants, in particular a bruja named Rosita and her doppelgänger boyfriend Dub.”
“Bruja?” I hesitated. “What’s a bruja?”
“Central American witch,” DuSable warned.
“Yes,” Jumbo concurred. “Anyhow, in a desperate move to regain power, the pair tricked my boy Death by killing me and replacing me with a Dub imposter that could control my flawless computer program from the boss man’s apartment. A program that organizes mortal deaths. Meanwhile, the rebels arranged for Grim to go on vacation, but not before giving his power to kill everything to you, Buck. Their plan: trick you into willingly giving over the all- powerful scythe in order to circumvent protective measures set by the All Mighty. However, as you stumbled along, you learned the truth. They’re a bunch of assholes. When you saw past their charade, they tried to force your hand by stealing your kid. And now, that about catches us all up.”
Jumbo’s words hit me like an uppercut. Outsiders saw what I felt. Luna and I had a bond. I would move mountains to keep her safe. A voice inside wondered if Jumbo intentionally used the words your kid to get my help. He didn’t have to. I was already hard pressed. Maybe he sincerely thought that Luna and I were a mini family. That thought woke me up.
“Great.” I knocked on the tabletop. “So what do they have going for them?”
Adam cleared his throat. “To start,” he said with his Hans Gruber accent. “They have an army of soulless children at their disposal.”
“Yeah,” I cut in. “What the hell are those things, devils?”
Dillinger snorted as he traded glances with DuSable. “No, devils are much worse. Trust me, I know one.” DuSable shook his head.
“It’s complicated,” Jumbo added. “We’re still trying to work out the details, but dark magic perverted these Unmentionables into monsters with an insatiable hunger for flesh. Murder keeps them going, making them fast and hard to kill. They’re not undead. They’re what we classify as aberrations.”
The barista reappeared out of nowhere, placing a saucer held mug in front of Dillinger. “One Romanian dark,” she declared. “Negative O with a hint of nutmeg.” I stared disgusted at the latte art spread like a skull over his amber colored drink. The barista gave me a glance and in a passive aggressive manner said, “Yours will be up shortly, sir. We found a bag of regular in storage.” She walked away with a counterfeit smile. Dillinger eagerly sipped at his cup, leaning his head back as he savored the flavor. Color returned to his once pallid flesh and his mauve veins abated.
“Does no one see the irony in this?” I asked.
“Anyhow,” Jumbo cut in with an amused tone. “Besides the army of evil children, there are the evil geniuses. Rosita is a powerful witch that has studied Brujería under her Master and former head of Chicago, Collin, for decades. Dub is not only a shapeshifter, but Death’s love child, and is immune to every conventional type of dying.”
“Uh,” I hummed. “Did Death go out for a pack of cigarettes and not come back?” Ken Doll and Selena chuckled like a laugh track.
“Opposite,” Jumbo answered. “Dub’s mommy seduced Death.”
“Noted,” I blurted.
“Don’t forget,” Dillinger added as he licked his lips of foam. “That Dub and Rosita have the power to kill off all mortals and have been killing my human support with their flawless program.”
“We’re working on that, dude,” Jumbo asserted.
“There’s Dub’s brother, The Mad Knight.” I tapped my finger on the table. It all started to sound pretty insurmountable.
“Yeah, man,” Jumbo dove in. “I’ve been doing my research on Dothur. He was said to have disappeared into Arcadia centuries ago. Rumor has it that he died or lost his mind.”
“Guys,” I proclaimed. “I am telling you that I’ve had several conversations with this guy. He’s nuts for sure, but very much alive.”
“If that’s the case.” Jumbo rubbed the back of his neck, “then he has an arsenal of fairy powers.”
“Oh fantastic,” I aired and wiggled fingers in a mock celebration. “Yay, I’m so happy.”
“Dude.” Jumbo shrugged. “We never said it would be easy.”
“Well.” I rubbed the top of my freshly buzzed head. “What do we have going for us.”
“You’re looking at it.” Dillinger waved his hand to the group. “A tech guy.” Dillinger pointed at a typing Jumbo. “A revenant.” Dillinger’s hand moved to a waving DuSable. “Frankenstein’s monster.” Adam growled as John directed his hand to him. “Two blood thralls,” Ken Doll and Selina gave a glamor shot pose. “And an old vampire bank robber.”
“Ugh,” I gasped. “What about the Undead Union?”
“We’ve been over this. They’re afraid,” Dillinger scoffed. “Cheating death has serious consequences in the afterlife. Those that survived the uprising are terrified to risk their immortality again. Rosita and Dub are scary.”
“Guys,” I shouted. “Please tell me we have something going for us.”
“We do, man,” Jumbo objected. “We have information they don’t. For starters, they think I’m dead. I’m not, which is great because I know the interworking of Death’s domain. We also were able to obtain the key to Death’s place, which could help us stop these random deaths.”
“Oui,” DuSable verified. “I’ve reached out to Mary. She may be willing to help us with a boat, but her asking price is steep.”
“Cool, brother,” Jumbo complimented. “That’s a plus. Another advantage, Buck, they think you’re clueless. You’re really good at it.”
“Thanks,” I lauded in a plain tone. “So is that it?”
“Well, then there’s your powers,” Jumbo said nonchalantly.
“What powers?” I chastised. “I don’t have any powers.”
“No?” Adam barked. “How about when you coughed up ectoplasm in The Violet Hour’s bathroom?”
“Oh, that.” I clucked my tongue. “I don’t know how that happened.”
“Do you really not know about your deathly privileges?” Jumbo questioned.
“I have no clue,” I admitted. “What’s with the smoke? I just assumed it was excess lung butter from a lifetime of tobacco abuse.”
“Buck.” Jumbo leaned into his scooter. “You’re going to start to feel some changes in your body. This is natural and means you’re growing into a man.”
“Are you going to tell me or not?” I pleaded. “It kind of seems important since we are fighting an insurmountable war.”
“Does no one appreciate good humor?” Jumbo cleared his throat. “Okay dude, when you were killed by Dillinger,” Dillinger winced, “the boss man denied your death.”
“So I’m undead?” I blurted.
“Not quite.” Jumbo pinched his fingers together as he explained. “Vampires, wights, and ghosts are undead. They walk the line between mortality and oblivion. You are bound by the fundamental forces of Death.
You’ve been returned to life and are anchored by Mr. Grim’s very essence. Spiritualists in the Victorian era dubbed it as ectoplasm and used to take weird ass pictures of it coming from psychics’ ears and crap.”
“The smoke?” I guessed.
“Good,” Jumbo complimented. “It’s the energy of the afterlife. The electric that charges us as we pass over.”
“So.” I looked at the palms of my hands. “The Grim Reaper blocked my death, but he also made me a living generator for whatever makes up the afterlife?”
“While that’s likely the most dumbed down explanation possible,” Jumbo said through his stained teeth. “You’re starting to get it. The boss man had to in order to keep you alive.”
“Okay, great, so I can make cool smoke rings,” I bleated. “How’s that going to help us?”
“Well.” Jumbo leaned back in his scooter. “Until the boss man removes the anchor, it’s not easy to kill you. The threads of ectoplasm will always try to sew you back up. Also, interns before you have been able to manipulate the ectoplasm to create dope as hell manifestations, but that’s before my time.”
I gave Jumbo a blank stare for longer than I should have. After I felt I’d made him uncomfortable enough, I spoke up. “Okay, so we have a small band of volunteer undead, a few secrets, and I can cough death fog. Not the best sell, but I’m in nonetheless, so what’s the plan?”
Dillinger leaned back in his chair, staring at me from the tops of his sockets. He cracked his neck before speaking in a low tone. “They want the scythe, plain and simple. They tried to pretend they were your allies, but that didn’t work, so now they’ve taken a hostage. It won’t be long before they reach out to you and give you their demands.”
“Humor me,” I pleaded. “What should I do when they demand Old Lilith?” Dillinger gave his signature smirk. “Give it to em’.”
Dillinger explained his idea. I had to admit I liked it. It involved a bit of caution, some subterfuge, and a lot of guts. I gave my input, sprinkling a bit of Buck Palasinski into the design before agreeing. I heard the video game level up sound effect as I did. Much like all arrangements, this could all go sour very quickly, ending in death and destruction for us all. Still, it was my best chance of getting Luna back. We went over the second and third draft until finally wrapping up the plan into one solid blueprint. The vampire barista finally delivered my plain coffee just as we put the final touches on everything. I took a sip of the bitter coffee, giving me the much-needed boost I desired to depart back onto the streets.
A Dead-End Job Page 19