Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror

by Bray, Michael

So much blood.

  Harry blinked as his brain tried to process the violence in front of him. His wife’s eyes stared blankly, devoid of any semblance of life as the eight inch serrated knife fell to the ground. It was at that point as he watched it come to rest on a pile of soggy, slick entrails that he felt something in his mind snap. He tried to speak, but instead only smacked his lips, a strange gurgling sound welling up from inside. He was sure he could have controlled it, had she not chosen that moment to speak. Her tone was both an accusation and a question—pleading and angry. It was that one word that sent him over the edge.

  “Harry?”

  As he turned and vomited noisily, he wondered how this could have happened, how his life could come to this.

  Fife was sitting on the ground, his legs splayed apart, his stomach and internal organs pooled around him. His eyes stared lifelessly downward, his chin resting on his chest as Maggie crouched beside him, her own knife jammed deeply in his throat.

  Maggie stood defiantly, pulling the knife free with a wet crunch as she now stared at Harry. He searched her eyes for anything, any semblance of the woman he had loved, but saw only darkness there. She walked towards him slowly, smiling without humor as she lifted the blade.

  “Close your eyes, Harry,” she said seductively. Too shocked to do anything but cooperate, Harry did as he was told. Finally, he understood. Fife’s words echoed back to him from their earlier conversation.

  ‘Did you see the news tonight? Police found another body. That’s seven now. Someone out there is on a spree.’

  “Yes they are,” Harry said under his breath.

  He could smell her now—the expensive perfume mingled with the wet copper smell of blood. He felt his bladder let go and prayed it would be quick.

  VICTOR

  Mallone’s restaurant was located in the centre of New York’s Mulberry Street. Known as Little Italy, it was once a thriving neighbourhood of authentic Italian restaurants and stores, but since the influx of Chinese immigrants, neighbouring Chinatown had begun to grow and over time had absorbed much of Little Italy. Now only Mulberry Street remained—a single row of fine Italian restaurants determined to keep the tradition alive. Mallone's was quaint, with warm red brick walls and large plate glass windows across its front. Their menu boasted the finest Italian meals in the city, and to those who dined there its reputation was entirely justified. A red white and green awning fluttered above the door, and the hand painted sign, which read simply Mallone’s in large red writing, had been the same since the fifties. On any given evening, the restaurant was a hive of activity, with tourists and locals alike keen to sample their excellent menu of traditional dishes. The daylight hours were quiet, and it was during this time that Victor Mallone ran his other business.

  He sat at his private table at the back of the restaurant flanked by his personal bodyguards. Even though the only other people in the place were the waiting staff, already preparing for the evening rush of customers, he had learned not to take any chances. As the staff polished silverware and changed the red and white patchwork tablecloths, Victor ate his lunch, slobbering and grunting as he shovelled the Cannelloni down his immense gullet.

  At three hundred and seventy pounds, he was the largest of the Mallone family, and also considered himself the smartest. The oldest of three brothers, his siblings had fared worse than he had. Joey, the youngest, was serving a twenty-year stretch for armed robbery and murder. His other brother, Salvatore, was never cut out to be a leader, and worked as his head of security. Victor glanced at himself in the mirror that ran down the side of the restaurant and smiled at the reach of his power. He was large and flabby, with thinning, greasy black hair he wore swept back and down to his shoulders. His eyes were small and piggish but incredibly cruel, and he had the hooked nose inherited from his father, Tino.

  Tino had introduced Victor to the world of organised crime when he was only a teenager. At first it was just simple entry-level stuff. Money laundering, protection rackets and the like. But Victor had taken to it like a duck to water, and from those humble beginnings, he began to position himself to take over the Mallone family. Whilst his brothers were out chasing women and drinking, he was working closely with his father and getting his hands dirty, proving he was cut out for the job. He already had aspirations of his own, but they would have to wait until the old man finally decided to die or retire.

  Victor eventually got sick of waiting, and in the spring of 94’ he smothered his frail old father as he slept. Nobody questioned the circumstances of his death—no one dared. Finally Victor had what he wanted. He was in control.

  Over the next seventeen years he expanded the family business, turning a small operation into a sprawling and feared empire. Not content with protection rackets and money laundering, Victor had stepped up to drug smuggling, prostitution rings, extortion, kidnapping and contract killings. The business that initially turned over eight hundred grand a year, now turned over almost five times that amount, and there was no shortage of customers. Over the years, Victor had dealt with all manner of people, from all walks of life, who needed a little help here and there. Be it the woman who came to him looking to buy an American baby with no questions asked, or the lovers who wanted to rid the world of their respective spouses, or the crazy old recycling couple who wanted help getting away with murder. As long as they had the cash, they were all the same to Victor. He asked no questions. Everyone knew that Victor was a man without conscience, without morals, and without the capacity to forgive. And although he had homes in Madrid, Sicily, and Southern France, he chose to stay here in New York, close to the roots of his businesses. It was to show he had no fear of living down on street level with minimal protection (or at least to make it appear so). But the flipside was that it also made him a target. Several attempts had been made on his life, and apart from a narrow escape in the early part of ‘02, Victor was always one-step ahead of his enemies.

  He finished his meal and let out a huge belch as Salvatore hurried out of the kitchen, wringing his hands. He was skinny with tight, drawn in features and prominent cheekbones. Like Victor, he had inherited his father’s thin hair, and was completely bald apart from a stubborn ring of black hair around the back of his head.

  “Victor, I need to talk to you.”

  Victor motioned for him to sit as he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “What is it, Sal?”

  “More trouble with the Chinaman. He plugged Crespo.”

  Victor tossed his napkin down in disgust. The Chinaman was Wang Li, a thorn in Victor’s side for the past seven years. Their paths had crossed many times, as they often found themselves with their fingers in the same lucrative pies. Like Victor, Wang Li was willing to do whatever it took to be successful. But whereas Victor was very much a public figure, Wang Li was something of a recluse and was rarely seen outside of his fortress like home above the restaurant he owned in Chinatown. People feared Wang Li just as much as they feared Victor, and since leaving such a rival alive was unwise, Victor had put a bounty on the Chinaman's head for fifty grand.

  The first to try was a Russian contract killer called Valuev. He came highly recommended to Victor as a man who could get the job done. Three days later Victor received a package in the mail containing Valuev’s severed head. Others tried, but had also either turned up in pieces or just disappeared altogether. The bounty on the Chinaman was now at an even two million dollars, but there had been no takers for almost two years. Word had spread of those who went before.

  “Crespo? Ah, he was a nobody anyway. No loss.” He said this with a dismissive wave of his hand, but inwardly he was furious. Crespo was a major player in the weapons smuggling branch of Victor’s business, and this was a terrible blow to that particular revenue stream.

  “That’s not all. The Chinaman wants to meet you.”

  Victor felt a rare flash of fear, which he masked with a smile.

  “I bet he does. Then what? An ambush? Does he think I was born yesterday?
”

  “Word on the street is he’s sick—that he wants out. Wants to end his days back in his homeland.”

  “In my experience, Sal, the word on the street isn’t worth spit.”

  “I thought so too, but he sent this.”

  Salvatore reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a DVD.

  “It’s from him. I mean it’s personally from him.”

  This was intriguing. Despite their on-going dispute, Victor had never actually seen the Chinaman. He turned the clear DVD case in his pudgy hands and considered his options.

  “What are you thinking, Vic?”

  “Let’s watch it and see what the old bastard has to say. Be in my office in an hour. And keep this quiet, Sal.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you up at the house.”

  The two brothers shook hands and Salvatore left. Victor wondered just what the Chinaman was up to. In his experience, people always had an angle, and rarely did anything unless they stood to gain something. He checked his watch, and right on cue the door to the restaurant opened and a man walked in for his appointment. He was one of Victor’s best, a real hard-ass with a vicious mean streak. He nodded to Victor and sat at the table opposite, hands folded on the tabletop.

  “Alex, it’s good to see you.”

  “Mr. Mallone.”

  Cold. To the point. He was in the zone and ready to work. Victor wished he had more men like Alex. He briefly considered giving his assignment to someone else and bringing him in for the Chinaman situation, but Tony Valentine had been ducking his loan repayments for too long and Victor needed someone who could get the point across.

  “I want you to do something for me, Alex. I want you to go visit Tony Valentine and get me my money. Whatever he doesn’t have in cash, I want you to bring back in body parts.”

  “How far would you like me to go, Mr. Mallone?”

  “Don’t kill him. Just make sure the lesson sticks.

  “Understood. Where does he live?”

  Victor handed over a folded slip of paper with the address scrawled on it.

  “You are a great asset to my business, Alex.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mallone,” came the cold reply.

  Victor nodded and was grateful to have someone so professional on his side. As the man left, Victor turned his attention back to the DVD, which sat beside his empty plate. This Chinaman business bothered him, but he was curious to see how it would play out. He slid out of his chair with some effort, and snatched up the DVD.

  “Take me to the house,” he barked at the two men flanking the table who hurried on ahead of him. One opened the passenger door as the other rushed to the driver’s side of the bottle green ’63 Rolls Royce. Victor waddled out of the restaurant and clambered into the back of the car. He thought he might take a vacation soon, he was feeling drained and could do with a break. Stifling a yawn, he closed his eyes and dozed for the twenty-minute journey to his house.

  Surrounded by twelve-foot high walls and situated on five acres of lush land, Victor’s home was more of a fortified compound than a living space. Boasting eight bedrooms and two swimming pools, it truly was the visual expression of the fruits of his labour. He employed a full time staff of cooks and cleaners, as well as a twelve-man security team to patrol and protect the outer perimeter of the property. As an extra precaution, all the windows were bulletproof.

  Victor’s office was on the upper floor. It was panelled in oak, and the large, wall length window looked out over a great water-fountain that dominated the courtyard. The carpet was Persian and deep red, offset beautifully by the antique furniture. His desk was large and clean and as he sank into his oversized leather chair, he nodded to Salvatore to play the DVD. The pair watched as the fifty-inch television that hung on the wall came to life.

  The screen faded in on a darkened room and a simple wooden desk. A black suited figure walked slowly into view and sat, looking directly into the camera. He looked to be anywhere between sixty and eighty. His white hair was thin and straggled, and his features were gaunt. His aged skin seemed stretched over his skull, and although he had obviously tried cosmetic surgery to mask the signs of age, the folds in his gizzard like neck were still visible. His slanted eyes were hard and cruel, and they appeared to look through the screen directly at Victor and Salvatore. He folded his bony hands on the desk and managed a weak smile. He then began to speak, his English vaguely tinted with his Cantonese dialect.

  “Mr. Mallone, I’m sure this message has come as a surprise to you, and indeed I would not have sent it unless I had something of importance to convey.”

  “It’s really him,” said Salvatore excitedly, Victor silencing him with a wave of his hand.

  “I’ve grown old, Mr. Mallone—too old for this constant conflict between our organisations. I grow weary of the bloodshed, and as you can see, my health will not allow me the strength to persevere.”

  Victor couldn’t quite believe that this old man was his great adversary. He shook his head slowly.

  “I long to return home, to die in the peace of my homeland, and as I have no family to pass my business to, I have decided that—should you desire it—I shall turn control of my territory over to you.”

  Victor and Sal shared a quick glance, then looked back to the screen.

  “I know you are probably wondering why I would hand over my life’s work to you, Victor—and I don’t blame you. The fact is, despite everything that has transpired between our organisations, I have great respect for you. I respect your work ethic and I respect the ruthlessness with which you conduct your business.”

  “Un-fuckin- believable,” whispered Salvatore under his breath. Victor watched on intently, a small amused smile on his face.

  “I have only one condition, Mr. Mallone; should you accept my offer, you must retain my staff. I may be returning to China, but my men are not. They are hard-working and have families to feed. You will need the muscle anyway, as my territory is much larger than your own.”

  The old man smiled but his eyes remained focussed and sharp.

  “If you find this arrangement agreeable, I would suggest a meeting between you and myself at a secret location. To dispel any thoughts of deception on my part, I will allow you to choose the time and location, but I must stress the importance of keeping this arrangement confidential. There are certain parties that would be most interested in knowing we are in the same room together, and would greatly benefit from one or both of our deaths. Of course, you are under no obligation to accept this offer. If you do not, there are most certainly others who would be more than willing to take up the territory and business interests. If you would like to proceed, send one of your men to my restaurant with the time and location of the meeting. Tell him to ask for Lei Ling. She can be trusted with any information.”

  The old man leaned forward. His face now out of the shadowy half-light, he looked even older and more tired.

  “Let us put an end to this war, Victor. I have had enough of the bloodshed and simply wish to retire peacefully. You have three days to respond, after which I will assume you have declined my offer.”

  The screen faded to black and Sal looked to Victor, his mouth open in shock.

  “Did that really just happen, Vic? Did the old bastard just…give up?”

  Victor smiled. He wasn’t convinced. Sure, the old man looked like hell, but he was still together upstairs.

  “Don’t get too excited, Sal. This could be a trick to draw us out.”

  “I’m not so sure, Vic. Did you see him? He looked sick. Like really sick.”

  “Sick or not, it seems too good to be true. That usually means it is.”

  “What if we use the situation to our advantage?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he said we can choose the place right? So let’s pick a spot where we can hide a few people, just in case things get outta hand. I know it’s a risk, Vic, but think of the gains.”

  He nodded. Undisputed control of litt
le Italy and Chinatown. It really was too good an opportunity to miss.

  “You know what, Sal, you’re right. But we need to organize, do it up proper. The fewer people who know about it, the better. Bring in Joey and Franco.”

  “What about Alex?”

  “Nah, he’s working something else for me.”

  “What about Marco?”

  “I thought he was still in the cage?”

  “Paroled last month. He’s ready for action.”

  “Ok, sounds good. Make the arrangements.”

  Sal nodded. “Any ideas where you wanna set up the meeting?”

  “We need a private place that affords us the advantage if things turn to shit.”

  “What about the waterfront?”

  Victor considered for a moment and then nodded slowly.

  “That’s not bad, Sal. We can use one of our boats. That way we don’t have to worry about an ambush.”

  “Are you legit gonna meet him, Vic? No funny business?”

  “It’s worth the risk, Sal. The benefits outweigh the risk.”

  The Docks were situated just off Broadway. Split into three distinct sections, it was used for not only commercial import and export purposes, but also doubled as a naval shipyard. Millions of dollars’ worth of goods moved through here, going to and from all corners of the world. The ninety-foot vessel ‘Lady of the sea’ was tied to the dock and blended in perfectly with the other boats around it. Its white hull shimmered in the mid afternoon sun as the waves gently rocked it back and forth in its berth. Initially used for deep-sea fishing, Victor had purchased the boat five years earlier to smuggle weapons, drugs, and people on occasion.

  The boat had been refurbished inside to Victor’s specifications. The usual maze of corridors typical of commercial boat interiors had been almost completely done away with. The lower decks had been converted into compartments (or cells when they needed to be used for the purpose) in which various goods were stored. Above this was the original crew’s quarters, and the upper deck had been completely opened up and split into three areas. There was Victor’s private bedroom and bathroom, next to which there was a large living space, and towards the stern of the boat was a long, windowless meeting room, which was to be the location of Victor’s meeting with Wang Li.