The Lucifer Messiah

by Frank Cavallo

  “Did you have kids?”

  “Two. Mary and Michael.”

  She almost smiled, but something was holding it back.

  “Two kids. Where are they now?” he asked.

  “Mary was born in the spring of 1924. We buried her in the winter of ’25.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Michael was born five years later. Vince took Mary’s death hard. I think he used it as an excuse to drink even more. Michael drowned, God rest his soul, in 1938. I think that was really the end for me and Vince. He stayed in our old apartment, and I ended up moving back in here with my mother. She passed away in ’44.”

  She was right. He had missed out on a lifetime.

  “You’re still married, though?” he asked. There was a ring on her finger that sparkled, even in the dim, even after thirty hard years.

  “Yeah,” she said, as though it were nothing more than an afterthought.

  “So you still love him?”

  Maggie shook her head, and she sighed. Not as an answer, but merely to take a moment while she thought of one. Sean stayed still. He almost regretted asking. When she started again he was about to interrupt her, but something about her expression, the emptiness of it, maybe, told him to let her finish.

  “It’s hard to say. All the years between us. Everything that’s happened. Sometimes I wish I could say I didn’t love him, and sometimes I don’t know if I ever really did. Doesn’t that just take the cake?”

  “No. Actually I understand that completely,” he said.

  Strangely, the comment seemed to come from nowhere in particular, and not from Sean’s place along the sill. When she turned around, Maggie saw only the slightly open window.

  Sean was gone.

  Again.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ARGUS WAS BACK AT HIS ADOPTED CATHEDRAL. THERE were many others with him now. Galanthis had merely been the first to join Charybdis, Arachne, and himself beneath the shelter of the ruined Catholic structure. Through their efforts, over a dozen newcomers had now come into temporary residence there.

  Even as the Bleecker Street Haven became crowded with others of their kind, his loyal followers gathered here instead, in secret, out of view of the Morrigan or any of her agents.

  Some were busy at work, setting up makeshift places of rest along the walls, in the eaves and behind the confessionals. They were not using tools of metal or wood. Clear slime and sticky, plaster-like ooze were their only utensils.

  Whether from that, or from something else, the place was beginning to stink. It was an almost syrupy reek, a hint of something stewing in the moist, warm air. Organic, but putrid, like crab apples rotting on wet autumn grass.

  The smell didn’t bother Argus in the least.

  “The reunion is well along,” the child-who-wasn’t said, having to rest only a moment after entering. “The Haven in Greenwich Village is already filling up with those of us who have answered the call. I spoke to the heads of six other refugee houses, Paris, Leningrad, Baghdad, Hong Kong, Cairo, and Toronto. Most report the same thing, their ranks are depleted from the War and the few who have come here are all that remain of their covens.”

  “And what of Lucifer?” Arachne asked, helping her master with his cane as he sat down. Yellow lesions had grown up like weeds through the soft skin of his forehead and cheeks. Some were dripping pus that mixed with sweat. His tie was undone.

  “No one is speaking of him. For fear of the Morrigan, I’d guess. Many still place their faith in the Keeper,” Argus answered, out of breath.

  He was missing two of his front teeth, which filtered his words through a lisp. Every time he inhaled he looked as though he was going to puke, but his stomach was empty.

  “They will not join with us then?” she questioned.

  “No. Those of us who have gathered here will make our move without outside help,” the ancient child said.

  “That changes nothing,” Charybdis broke in. “We’ve always known that if we were to do this, we would be acting on our own. We’ve never counted on outsiders for help before.”

  “Except perhaps for your beloved,” Arachne replied.

  “Yes. Have you spoken with Scylla?” Argus asked.

  He was trying to resist the urge to pick at the scabs on his tiny fingers. One of his nails looked like it was about to fall off, undermined by the decay festering beneath.

  The African woman shifted in her footsteps. Her face betrayed her uncertainty, despite the confident tone of her voice.

  “I have. I cannot say what impact my words have had, however. You must remember that Scylla has spent nearly three decades bent on a single-minded course, much as I was when you first took me in. Since our parting she has hunted Lucifer like an animal, seeking any clue to his location, determined to avenge herself. It will take more than a kiss from me to turn her from that mission.”

  Argus gave in. He pried the hanging nail free. It came loose with barely any resistance; just a few tendrils that clung to his diseased finger like stringy, wet cheese.

  “Nevertheless, if she chooses to join us, the decision must be made soon. The full season is very nearly upon us. The Morrigan will come to the Bleecker Street Haven to announce the location of her feast within a day,” he advised, tossing the dead piece of his old self to the floor.

  “I will try to sway Scylla to our cause. But nothing will matter if we do not find Lucifer,” Charybdis said.

  “Of that I am all too aware,” the sickly child replied.

  Pat Flanagan had gone by Vince’s apartment as soon as he’d gotten word. The crime-scene guys had still been milling around when he’d arrived, measuring, photographing, and chronicling where the three bodies had been.

  Bloodstains and chalk lines marked the sidewalk in a silent reflection of the morning’s events. Even the stray bullets and skull fragments were marked, and there were a lot of both.

  A pair of tire tracks had been cordoned off along the curb, with yellow rope draped between two squad cars.

  The apartment itself was empty, which was pretty much how he’d expected to find it. There was dried blood on the couch, but the door had been locked from the outside. Otherwise, there wasn’t much to go on. If Vince wasn’t dead, he had to have gone somewhere, or been taken somewhere. He had an idea where, but he didn’t tell anyone. He wanted to make one stop first.

  The Sunset Club was closed when Flanagan pulled up. But he banged on the door long enough and loud enough that someone came to open up. To his shock, it was Sam Calabrese himself.

  “Salvatore, what a surprise. You here all by your lonesome self?” He had known the man for many years, and he knew exactly how to needle him.

  This time, however, his gibe seemed to have no effect. Pat let himself in, but Sam didn’t seem to mind. The place was dark, and empty. All the tables were pushed up against the walls, revealing the ruts of old scratches on the black and white floor. The bar was cleared out. Only a few bottles were left along the mirror, just the cheap stuff that nobody ever drank.

  “I am alone, if that is what you mean. Is that what you came here to ask? Is the department suddenly concerned enough to check on my welfare? Or do you have other business this day?”

  Sam was dressed in a silk robe and slippers, and he seemed to be sweating. His jowls were fuller than usual, as though stuffed with food, but he didn’t appear to be chewing. Flanagan ignored the details, and took a seat at the bar.

  Sam remained standing.

  “Now really Sammy, after all these years, do I need a reason to come see my favorite bookie?” Again, the joke fell upon a blank stare. “Actually, I do have a business-related reason for my visit. We scraped a few of your boys off the pavement this morning.”

  Calabrese said nothing.

  “But you already knew that, right? Should I guess that this place is so quiet because all your other boys are too broken up about Paulie and his buddies to come in today?”

  Sam wasn’t rattled. If Pat hadn’t known
him better, he might have actually believed him.

  “We’re in the process of making some changes. The club will be closed for the foreseeable future. Does that answer your question?” Calabrese replied.

  “My first one, anyway. How about my second one?”

  “Go right ahead, but please be brief.”

  “I’m wondering if you can help me find someone.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Don’t speak too quickly there, Sam. I think you know my friend. Vince Sicario?”

  “Of course. Frequent customer. Is he lost?”

  “Funny. Still got a sense of humor, good.” Flanagan dropped his own feigned smile then, and he lit a cigarette. “Let me put it to you this way. We both know Vince has been in here recently, and we both know he’s been entangled,, so to speak, with some of your guys.”

  Calabrese remained stoic. Flanagan blew his first long puff of smoke directly into the fat man’s face. He dropped his shoulder to lean in close.

  “I don’t begrudge a man an honest debt, and I’ve known Vince long enough to know he ain’t exactly no kind of angel. But I’ll just say this, anything happens to him, and I find out your guys are connected—then my guys are gonna come down so hard on this little operation of yours that you’ll be lookin’ up to see those fancy Eye-talian shoes o’ yours.

  “Capisce?”

  Calabrese, who had seemed to inhale the Parliament smoke with unusual relish, breathed deeply in the wake of his visitor’s statement. His answer was quite a bit more agreeable than Flanagan had been expecting. That bothered him.

  “I understand completely. Your concern for your friend is much appreciated, but I can assure you that I know nothing of his current location. Of course, if anything were to come up, I would keep your words in mind.”

  Flanagan nodded.

  “Now detective,” Calabrese continued. “I really must excuse myself. There are other matters which demand my attention, and I have put them off far too long already.”

  Flanagan let himself out, more suspicious now than he had been when he’d entered.

  Once he was gone, Calabrese re-bolted the door. Gathering his robe around him, he slowly climbed the stairs to his loft. He opened the door to find Victor Huang just as he had left him, naked, tied to a chair, and bleeding from the stubs where six of his fingers had been recently severed.

  Calabrese closed the door behind him. There was a sound like a raven shrieking, and a growl.

  Then a man screamed.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THEY HAD COME TO MEET IN THE WORST PART OF town. Both had made certain no one had followed them, but neither one was really positive. Every shadow could hold a danger, but when she saw him again, Charybdis didn’t care.

  “My love,” she said, falling into his arms.

  They were inside the doors of an abandoned tenement, the glass broken out of the windows. An alley cat whined nearby.

  “You know I love you. I have never been able to refuse you Charybdis, but this time I almost did. It’s too dangerous, we can’t see each other until this is finished,” Scylla said.

  “Until our disgrace is absolved?” she answered.

  “We’re closer than we have been in so long, why risk it now?” Scylla asked.

  Charybdis straightened up, and arched her back as she held him. She was serious, urgent.

  “Because now is the only time. We must discuss what I proposed last night.”

  Scylla knew exactly what Charybdis was talking about. In years past they had often spoken that way. With few words.

  “Haven’t you given it any thought?” she asked. “I’m afraid that is all I have thought about since our last meeting,” the rat-man answered.

  “Then I need your answer,” she said, prodding him.

  Scylla shook his head.

  “I don’t have one. Not yet.”

  “We’re running out of time. If we’re to act, we have to do it soon.”

  He still seemed unconvinced.

  “Why should we do anything? Why risk losing what we have waited for all these many years? Especially now, when we’re so close,” he said.

  “Close to what?” she replied.

  “To this,” he said, reaching in closer to gently touch his lips against hers. “Forever. Haven’t we waited long enough?”

  Charybdis rolled her tongue over her lower lip. She hadn’t felt that sensation in ages. She wanted it again. But she held off.

  “Too many years have gone by, wasted years. That is why we must do this, so that we never waste so much precious time again,” she said.

  Scylla stayed close. He could still taste the cigarettes on her breath.

  “Charybdis, this is all that I want. All that I have ever wanted was to be with you. Isn’t that what you want too? Or have the years changed you so?” he answered, wrap ping his arms around her waist.

  She lowered her head from his gaze.

  “I have changed, yes. But not in that way. I have learned. Learned from Argus that there are things to value more than obedience.”

  “Such as?”

  “If we do nothing, the Morrigan will likely prevail. We will be together again, as we both wish,” she said, turning back to look in his eyes.

  “You speak as though that is a trifle. We will regain our lost honor, our rightful place that has so long been denied us.”

  “We will be servants once more. Slaves, really.” Scylla breathed heavily. He knew she was right, but he could think of no viable alternative.

  “What other choice is there?” he asked.

  “Freedom,” she replied, plainly.

  “Freedom?”

  “That will last forever. You and I, free, forever. But you must be willing to do this with me. I can’t do it alone,” Charybdis said.

  Scylla sighed. He scratched the fuzz on his pointed chin. Then, finally, he nodded.

  “Together,” he said. “As long as we’re together.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  SEAN WAS OUT AND ABOUT TOWN. IT FELT GOOD. HE didn’t remember a lot from the past days, just a few glimpses really. But it didn’t matter all that much. He wasn’t about to let a few ill-timed bullets and some unfortunate blood loss spoil his plans.

  No, he had come back to the old neighborhood for a reason, and it wasn’t to play games with fat gangsters and odd-looking hangers-on.

  His dented felt fedora slung low over his eyes, he passed anonymously through crowds of chattering, busy strangers, along sidewalks where he had once known everyone and now knew no one. He drank in the chaotic, throbbing energy of the street, listening in on a thousand simultaneous conversations and arguments and hints of music, ambling past storefronts that had changed hands many times since his days in the Kitchen, but hadn’t really changed much at all.

  Chestnuts were still roasting on corner vender-stands. He savored the deep burning aroma. No place else had that smell. There were street peddlers in Vienna, and Paris and Budapest, and a dozen other cities he’d been to, but for some reason, their stuff never smelled quite the same as the mélange of warm scents that was so imprinted on him from childhood.

  Only in New York.

  Italian fruit stands still sold oranges and apples and vegetables he couldn’t pronounce. Even in the November cold, the vendors in their yellow slickers hawked their wares only a few feet removed from the stifling crush of exhaust fumes spewing out of the endless rush of taxis and buses.

  Irish pubs were still Irish pubs too. Even if the pseudo-Gaelic names had mostly changed, shamrocks and beer taps and refuges from the wife and kids were the same everywhere, no matter what uncial-stenciled logo hung over the door.

  Church bells gonged somewhere in the distance, muted some by the general noise of the street. They reminded him of one more thing that he had given up when he left the old West Side.

  Some things were different, though.

  It was brighter than he remembered; whole sections of the neighborhood were no longer strangled by leviathan daytime sha
dows. The elevated trains that had once rumbled so loudly above the tenements were mostly gone. Now almost everything was underground. Tubes, like in London. Finally it seemed that someone had let the sun shine down on Hell’s Kitchen.

  There were more ethnic folks around too. Puerto Ricans, and Dominicans and others he didn’t recognize on sight. Used to be mostly just Irish and Italians, he remembered, block-by-block, building-by-building even. They had experienced enough problems getting along in his day. How all the new people fit in, he couldn’t even begin to guess.

  It was along the piers where he lamented the changes the most. The spot where he had spent so many sweltering summer afternoons diving into the river with Vince and Maggie was now occupied by a ventilation tower for the new Lincoln Tunnel. Nothing really was sacred, after all.

  Even though he had left the place in sorrow, anger more accurately, all he could remember were the good times. As he took in the sights, sounds, and smells of his long-lost home, all he could recall was the happiness. Friends. Loves. Good times, times that now seemed so very far away.

  Nostalgia didn’t last forever, though. Especially not when a rail-thin blond girl wearing a raincoat on a sunny day was following close behind, watching him pass through every crowded corner and turn.

  Sean didn’t recognize her, but that didn’t matter. She was on him, darting a little too elegantly between the pushcarts and the yammering crowds; trying a little too hard to blend in, as if she knew she hadn’t been invited to the party.

  He wasn’t about to lead her on.

  Careful to keep her at a distance, he turned into a narrow side street and pushed past a fire escape ladder that had been lowered to the sidewalk. Then, slipping around a pair of men who were arguing over a flat tire on a mint green Studebaker in what he thought was Spanish, he ducked through a torn-out section in a chain link fence that fixed the rough edges of a gravel parking lot.