The Lucifer Messiah

by Frank Cavallo

  It was spread out on the floor, covered in a bluish slime and flapping a series of appendages against each other like a deformed seal. The bulk of it, approximately six feet in length, was vaguely serpentine, but with limbs, or the remains of limbs, jutting out from every side. There was no head, but something that resembled a human chin and mouth struggled in pain at one end. It was there that Argus knelt, his tiny hand on the slippery skin of the thing.

  “It hurts. I know. But you are safe now. Do not fight it. Just let it happen, my child. Let the change overcome you,” he assured it.

  “The end stage,” Charybdis said, from her vantage a few paces back.

  Arachne was beside her. The blonde tugged at the sleeve of the African’s silk suit, a strange look clear on her face.

  Charybdis knew what it meant.

  “You have seen her? My lost beloved?” the black lady questioned.

  “I am fairly certain. The Keeper has had a young Latino thug following a man named Sicario for the last day. My contacts indicate it is your once-betrothed, Scylla.”

  Charybdis breathed heavily. Arachne noticed a slight quiver in her long torso. She almost looked frightened.

  “It’s been so long. I was beginning to think I’d never see Scylla again. This complicates matters.”

  “What will you do?” Arachne whispered back. “If the Morrigan learns that you two have broken her command, she’ll see you both dead.”

  “I have only one choice then, haven’t I?” Charybdis answered.

  The chanting continuing at his back, Argus stroked the fishlike exterior. He watched with an expression that was something like pride as the chin and mouth pushed forth from the snakelike body. With them came the beginnings of a face, a young man’s face, and then a head as well.

  “There, the pain is going away, isn’t it? You’re almost through it,” Argus continued as a neck followed the head. Then two human arms broke free from the fluttering quasi-limbs.

  In a few more minutes the chanting ceased, and the gathered circle lowered to their knees. Their candles they held forward, to shed light on the naked form of a young man who sat, quivering, next to Argus. A steaming, slimy husk of something lay discarded beneath him.

  “Welcome back to the fold, Galanthis. It has been a while, hasn’t it?” the boy-master said.

  “Argus?” the young man replied as a blanket was wrapped about him.

  The child-who-wasn’t nodded.

  “It has been a while. You’re looking very young these days, aren’t you?”

  TWELVE

  SOMETIMES A LITTLE FRESH AIR DID A MAN GOOD. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much of that in Manhattan, so Sam Calabrese had to make due with the occasional breeze off the river. Every so often, if he walked around long enough, the wind would clear out the stench of garbage, bus fumes, and human waste.

  But not nearly as much as he liked.

  Still, it was better than the staid confines of his abode, where Indian Joe kept the strictest of security in place at all hours. He was doing exactly what he was supposed to do, of course, ever the vigilant protector, but even the master needed a break from time to time.

  So he walked. As always of late, he walked under guard. The man called simply the Vig was on his left, a crew-cut giant who had earned his name for a savant-like ability to calculate interest. On his other flank was Gino Tonetti, the pug-faced former associate of Rocco Gallucci, who had reportedly left the neighborhood for a long vacation. A permanent vacation, some whispered.

  Calabrese ordered his men to stop when he caught sight of a Spanish youth nearing from the opposite side of the street. They were in front of a newsstand. Sam directed his men to dismiss the elderly proprietor. Then he took up residence inside the booth. When the Spanish man arrived, he was welcomed inside as well.

  “What do you have for me, loyal Scylla?” he said, without looking at the rat-faced man.

  “Very little, I’m afraid,” the other answered, reluctantly, it seemed.

  “We haven’t much time. You know that. Tell me what you have learned.”

  The Spanish man yet seemed hesitant, and he paused. He took a quick look at the Vig and Gino, guarding them outside the booth. He recognized them. They were not like him. They were human.

  “Would it not be better to converse alone, master?” he said, motioning toward the two loyal enforcers.

  Calabrese shook his head.

  “Alors, en français?” he questioned, quietly, but with a flawless Parisian accent.

  “Fear not. Those men owe their loyalty to me alone. You may speak in their presence without fear,” Calabrese answered.

  “Very well, master. At Lycaon’s request, I have spent the past day’s time on the trail of a man named Vincent Sicario. He was asking questions at the club early yesterday morning, only a few hours after the incident.”

  “And?”

  “As of yet, nothing. He’s a hard man to follow. When I have been able to check on him, I’ve watched him visit a police station, a drug store and several bars, but I haven’t seen him do anything that would lead us to the one we seek.”

  “Very well, check with Lycaon, but that route may have proven a dead end. If so, we’ll have need of your skills elsewhere.”

  “It may not be that simple.”

  “Why is that?”

  “There are others following him as well.”

  “Others? Of our kind?”

  “I do not yet know. It is possible. Since the War ended our folk have been scattered. The Havens in Leningrad, Paris, Hong Kong, and Prague were all destroyed. If it is one of us, it could be someone from there.”

  “Prague. Argus’s followers. They are gathering here, that I do know. Your beloved is among them, if you were wondering,” Calabrese replied.

  It was almost a taunt.

  “Of that I was unaware, master. By your command, as always.”

  “She has been by the ancient one’s side since he came to this place, and remains there as we speak.”

  The rat-faced man stayed silent. His beady eyes grew even more sullen, and his mustache hid a sharp frown.

  “I know I need not remind you of my decree, Scylla,” Calabrese pointed his fat finger directly into the Spanish’s man’s face, his voice nearly fallen to a whisper. “I have permitted you to join us here to share in the festival season, and to allow you one final chance to atone for your past failure. Until that is done, you are to have no contact whatsoever with Charybdis.”

  “I am thankful for the opportunity,” he answered.

  “Do not defy me,” Calabrese answered, with a tone that was all too clearly menacing.

  The rat-looking man called Scylla nodded, almost bowed.

  “Very well. You will use your skills to keep watch on both Mr. Sicario and these others who are seeing after him. If they are indeed followers of Argus, I must know immediately,” Calabrese said.

  “Do you suspect the ancient one of treachery?” Scylla asked.

  “I suspect everyone,” Calabrese replied. “But I fear him the most. If Lucifer were to fall under Argus’s influence, then I have no doubt that he would move against me.”

  The Vig was a whiz with numbers, but in every other respect, he was a certifiable imbecile. Nobody was better at breaking legs, or arms, or anything else that needed breaking, though, which was why he was one of the most trusted men in what had been Little Frankie Pentone’s side of the Calabrese operation. Trusted, but not well regarded for his brains.

  When he came into the Sunset with a worried look on his face, Paulie Tonsils perked up immediately. The Vig was too stupid to be worried.

  “What’s up Vig?” he asked, from his usual seat along the far wall, espresso in hand.

  “I just heard something you might be interested in, boss.”

  “Ok, quiet down kid. Why don’t you have a seat? Talk about it.”

  The Vig did as he was told, and Paulie smiled when he sat down. The big man never really looked comfortable doing anything but hurti
ng people.

  “You know that Rat guy, right?” he asked, in the manner that a child might ask his father if he knows the President.

  “The new guy, yeah, the Spanish kid.”

  “Well, I was walkin’ with Mr. Calabrese this morning, and the two of them met up and talked.”

  Paulie laughed. Not too much, though. He knew the kid meant well.

  “So?”

  “They talked about Vinny Sicario. That Rat guy’s been tailin’ him since yesterday.”

  Now Paulie was interested.

  “Sicario, huh? Did they say why?”

  “I couldn’t follow, but I think it has to do with the guy that got killed the other night.”

  “Damn.”

  “What’s up boss? I don’t get it,” the Vig said. His face was the picture of bewilderment.

  “That night, who was you lookin’ for?” Paulie asked.

  The Vig paused and considered for a moment. Most Irish names sounded more or less the same to him. O-this, Mc-that. But this one wasn’t any of those. It was different.

  “Some mick. I think his name was Moe? Or maybe longer, like Moe-kay-he or somethin’.”

  “Mulcahy?” Paulie asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Rocco and Gino were with me. We lost the guy. Why, you know him?”

  “No, but I know Sicario. Guy grew up in the middle of the biggest Irish slum in the city. Get a hold of Gino, I think we need to pay our old buddy Vince a visit.”

  THIRTEEN

  THE RAT-FACED MAN WAS ON HIS TAIL AGAIN. VINCE caught sight of him just after he picked up his morning paper. He got his coffee as though nothing were out of the ordinary. This time, he decided, it was his turn.

  The little dance routine of theirs had gone on long enough.

  He had left Sean and Maggie at his apartment, against his better judgment. She had told him that their long-lost friend had awakened the previous night, for a short time, but he had not stirred much since. Maggie had stayed the night, resting in a chair beside the couch. Vince, for his part, had gotten very little sleep.

  He needed to figure out what Sean was into. Whatever it was, he was sure it wasn’t good. When he found the rat-man watching him surreptitiously from across the street for the second day in a row, the deal was sealed. Sean was in big trouble, and he knew that he might be too, pretty soon.

  He played it calm. This was his backyard, his neigh borhood. He knew Hell’s Kitchen backward and forward. Some stranger wasn’t about to outwit him on his own turf.

  First he had to lull the pursuer, draw him in closer, make him think he had nothing to worry about. Then he would turn the tables. The rat-man was about to get a free tour of the West Side.

  It lasted for hours, well past noon. Vince moved deliberately, never looking like he was meandering, even though that was all he was doing. The whole time, he made sure to keep his pursuer in the corner of his eye. He hit four pubs, three stores, a pair of churches and a diner. He even paid a visit to Sacred Heart, where he’d gone to school as a kid, and hardly ever since then. Old Father Gallagher was still there, still doing the rosary, and still as big as a house.

  Then it was time for the move.

  Vince knew a place, on the corner of West Thirty-Eighth and Ninth. It was a deli, next to a bar, but it hadn’t always been two places. When he had been on the job, the bar had been twice as big. The owner, Jimmy O’Connor, had fallen on hard times during the War, some investments hadn’t panned out, and he’d been in the lurch for some cash. A buddy of his, Dirty Mike Sullivan, had stepped in and bought out half of the place. Without a liquor license, he’d converted his side into a sandwich shop.

  But the division was largely cosmetic, and Sullivan had paid off a few inspectors to skirt the building code violations his arrangement had created. One of them, in particular, was that the two places shared one cellar.

  Vince knew both men. He ducked into Dirty Sully’s Deli, happy to see that the owner was behind the counter. It was no problem for him to slip downstairs, and over to the other side of the twin establishment.

  The rat-man waited outside for well over fifteen minutes, Vince could see him from the window of the bar next door. He could tell the odd-looking figure was getting frustrated. The Spanish guy finally ventured into the deli, but he exited only a moment later, clearly agitated. He walked south.

  Now it was Vince’s turn.

  He waited until the rat-man was distant, but not too far away. Then he left the bar, and blended into the crowd, a hat borrowed from Dirty Mike low over his forehead. He followed the man over to Times Square, then into a subway, and onto a downtown car. That was the hardest part. Trying not to be noticed on the train. Luckily it was more crowded than usual.

  The rat-man got off in the Village, at West Fourth Street. Vince hated that part of town, hated the whole area around NYU, but he got out anyway. He needed to see where the guy was going.

  It didn’t take long. Just out of the subway, the Spanish-looking stranger took a left, then a right, and then another left. The path led to a small side street just outside of Washington Square Park.

  The rest of the neighborhood was trendy, which was why Vince hated it. Most of the kids who circulated around there, the artists, the musicians and the students, they weren’t real New Yorkers. Not the way Vince thought of them, anyway. Some were from the city, sure, but most were imports, and even those who were locals didn’t know his city, his life.

  This one block, however, looked like the avant-garde attitude had skipped it entirely. There were no coffee shops full of pretentious Bohemians, no tiny storefronts selling fake antiques. Just a row of dingy, poorly maintained buildings, and a lot of trash that hadn’t been picked up in a while.

  The rat-man moved quickly to a nondescript two-story building, with a plain stone-gray facade. There were no windows, but a small hand-painted sign above the door said Bleecker Street Haven in black letters. That’s weird, Vince thought, since I’m not on Bleecker Street. But that wasn’t the only thing that bothered him.

  He knew the place. He just couldn’t remember how, or why.

  The law offices of Preston, Howe & Stephens occupied the entire twenty-third floor of a fairly new office building in the mid-fifties on Madison Avenue. It was a part of town that a man like Salvatore Calabrese rarely got to in his line of work. He had dressed in his finest Italian suit for the occasion.

  J. Rutherford Preston, Esquire always wore expensive suits, with monogrammed cuffs and a diamond-accented gold tie tack. Behind his mahogany desk, with the obligatory green-shaded lamp and a scattering of papers, three framed degrees decorated the wall. At the center, raised a notch above the rest, was his license as counselor and attorney at law of the State of New York, flanked by twin certificates from Yale, one a bachelor’s degree in economics, and the other his juris doctor.

  He got up from his red-velvet chair when his secretary buzzed. It was just past one o’clock, and he had been dreading this client all day long. He fidgeted as the door opened, trying hard to keep from shaking visibly when the corpulent man with the grim reputation stepped into his office.

  Indian Joe was beside him, dressed just as sharply, but with hair longer than Preston had ever seen on anyone, male or female. He caught himself lingering just a moment. He prayed that neither man had noticed.

  “Good day, sirs,” Preston said, knocking his waste-paper bin with his knee as he stepped out to shake the hands of both. Only Sam obliged.

  “Good day to you, and thank you for seeing me. I realize that a man such as yourself must be quite busy. In light of that, I do appreciate your recent efforts on my behalf,” Calabrese said, somewhat quietly as he sat down. Joseph remained standing, and silent, beside him.

  Preston had not met either man before, having only dealt with intermediaries during their course of business. He knew them both by reputation, though; the type of men who were the reason he had taken up real estate law, rather than criminal law. He sat down himself, already impressed at the polis
hed manner of the man he’d heard had once made a sandwich while watching his men dismember a delinquent debtor with a hacksaw.

  “I have very good news for you, Mr. Calabrese,” Preston began, his mouth cotton-dry.

  “The only kind I ever like to hear, Mr. Preston,” Sam joked. He knew how nervous the lawyer was in his presence, and it amused him. If only he knew the real truth, he thought.

  “The transfer of title to the Pier 33 property is all but completed. And the previous owner has asked me to extend to you his thanks at how generous an offer you made. I suspect he might have parted with the land for less, unused as it has been for so long, and in such an undesirable location.”

  “All the same, I prefer to pay more for my piece of mind,” Calabrese answered.

  Preston wasn’t about to argue. He smiled, shuffled a few documents on his desk, opened a folder and passed some papers to Sam.

  “Well, if you sign there and there, Mr. Calabrese, that will just about seal the deal, so to speak.”

  Sam scanned the documents briefly, scribbling something illegible in the three places where his name was required.

  “Now, if you’ll permit me, I’d like to go over the basics of the parcel one last time. Metes and bounds and zoning restrictions and all that.”

  Sam nodded.

  “As you know, the area is really rather large, though it has sat vacant for most of the last twenty years. A lot of that likely has to do with the surrounding neighborhood, that section of the waterfront is notorious for prostitution and street crime, really quite seedy. While under-developed, considering the nearby lots, you have to remember that it is zoned exclusively for industrial use, docking and storage facilities, that sort of thing. No wild parties, in other words.”

  Preston laughed, but Sam remained stoic.

  “Right. Well then, do you have any questions for me?” the lawyer asked.

  “When do we close?”

  “Within twenty-four hours. I’ll meet with the bank people this afternoon and we’ll settle the loose ends. All I need from you is the check we discussed.”