Arkham Nights

by Glynn Owen Barrass

  He waved me off, saying “Forget it. You got a raw deal. It’s the least I could do.”

  “Well, see you Monday,” I said, getting up to leave.

  I was almost to the door when Kearney laughed and said, “Get this. While gallivanting around last night I happened to see the old big six himself, Trevor Towers.”

  “Really?” I asked, feigning ignorance. “Imagine that.”

  Kearney cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you two are getting along or not but...”

  “Not exactly,” I interrupted.

  “That’s too bad,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s going to need a friend if he keeps shooting his mouth off the way he’s been doing since hitting town.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “He’s pissing off the wrong people,” Kearney answered. “Arkham only seems all nice and boring but underneath, it’s just as rotten as any other place. I know he’s got a reputation for being a tough guy but he may be getting in over his head with the local dirt-bags.”

  I shrugged. “I’d be happy to tell him but I don’t think he’d listen.”

  “Understood,” said Kearney. “Just wanted you to know in case he was a pal of yours.”

  I thanked him and left the dingy office. Kearney had given me a lot of bad things to mull over.

  I spent most of that day taking in the sights. Arkham was a small town going through a city’s growing pains. This had its advantages but also brought with it a share of the problems that ate away at most cities. A growing economy meant good kale for the average Joe but also attracted the lowlifes like moths to a flame.

  With Towers being his usual charming self, I knew that warning him would be a wasted effort. I didn’t have any desire to step in that particular cow flop and didn’t owe him anyway. Whatever shit-storm he managed to stir up would be one of his own making.

  Pushing the thought from my mind, I went looking for a place to eat. I found a small café and filled up on clam chowder and home-baked bread. Fortunately the waitress was a choice bit of calico and had high enough standards not to settle for a mushy-faced ex-boxer like myself. This meant I could eat here as much as I liked, without having to worry about any necking cashiers.

  After leaving the café, I stopped at a newsstand and grabbed the latest issue of Weird Western Tales. I was a sucker for pulp magazines and this one contained a story by the inimitable Josh Reynolds. I paid for the magazine and thumbed through it as I walked back to my hotel. “Warriors From the Nether Depths”; now there was a winner!

  I soon arrived at my new Home Sweet Home and made my way upstairs. I poured three fingers of white lightning and stretched out on the unmade bed. In spite of Reynolds’ fever-heat prose, I soon nodded off and slept until dark. I woke from a terrible nightmare, where ‘Big Bertha’ had me tied naked to a bed. She did ‘coochie-coo’ noises as she came closer, dressed in nothing but a pair of brass knuckles.

  I once heard that there was a god of dreams, fella by the name of Morpheus. I made sure to remember to kick his ass if I ever came across the goof. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I put on a clean shirt and headed out to check up on the Arkham nightlife.

  A joint called Ciro’s looked interesting so I went inside and found a small table in the corner. Eventually a hard-looking blonde took my order and before long I was enjoying one of Milwaukee’s best natural resources. A raggedy jazz band was getting down as hard as it could for the sake of the deadbeat early patrons. I was beginning to question my choice of speakeasies. Just as the last of the patrons were getting fed up with the band’s birdbrained racket, they decided to take a break.

  I decided to enjoy another brew in silence and caught bits from conversation from a nearby table. Three tough-looking birds were throwing back drinks and laughing.

  “The palooka actually thinks he can take on Big Boss. Can you imagine the balls on that guy?” The largest bimbo of the three asked.

  A baby-faced punk, hard at work trying to make himself older than he looked, spoke up. “That’s not balls,” he said. “That’s a death wish.”

  The third man smiled. “I hear he’s gonna have his hash handed to him later tonight. Big Boss can’t abide by that trash talk. The Miskatonic’s gonna have another tenant before morning.”

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were talking about. It sure looked like the shit-storm was forming and I couldn’t help but wonder how Trevor Towers planned to survive it. The man had serious balls, but I doubt he ever harbored a death wish. Feeling sort of bad for the sap, I visited a couple more juice joints before winding my way back to Crane Street.

  The night after I settled into my new digs, I found myself sat in a nondescript juice joint across the docks, talking to some old rat-faced drunkard called Brown Jenkin. A queer old duck, what with his shock of white hair and skinny little face; he was friendly enough but I knew, just by the glint in his eye, that he would sell me out in a second flat. I bought him drinks and he nibbled pretzels like a rodent, taking in every word I said about Big Boss and his crew. When I’d said my piece, I let Brown get a couple of words in, before a couple of toughs stepped into the bar to retrieve a small brown parcel from under the counter.

  As they were turning to leave, my new best bum friend made up some excuse and walked up to meet them.

  I couldn’t make out the words or see their looks in the juice joint’s light, but I got the gist of it: I’d struck a nerve with someone important. If all went well, I’d be having a chat with Big Boss himself.

  When they were out of there, I let myself loose, to sink into the muck along with the other lowlifes and drank to my lost love.

  “To better days” I muttered. No one replied.

  I sat there until last orders came and went, switching rotgut for snort, until I was well and truly hammered by closing.

  They jumped me when I was just a few yards out of the bar, their beefy hands dragging me through the cool darkness of asphalt into the dank stink of alleyway cobbles. I was even more surprised to know that the man that’d pulled me off the street was a cop: a big, round faced bull with his cap pulled down leaving most of his face in shadow.

  The evil glint in his eyes was bad enough, but when the other copper stepped out into the streetlight’s glare, I knew I was right up shit creek without a paddle. The second cop, smaller and skinnier than his partner, tapped a nightstick against the flat of his palm menacingly.

  Climbing to my knees, I raised my hands as if to say, ‘what’s the problem, officers?’ But my mouth got the better of me and I blurted out, “You know, you’re holding that club of yours all wrong.”

  This elicited a harsh kick to my chest and I crumpled back to the floor, upchucking from the pain. As the gorge rose in my throat I heard the big one say, “He’s holding the stick just fine. Show him, Eddie,” and a lightning bolt of pain exploded across my head. My vision blurred as I twitched and hacked up on the floor.

  The bigger bull pinned me to the ground with one of his leather size twelve’s, even as they relieved me of my wallet and my pistol. I stared daggers at him as he leafed through my wallet, with his partner pointing my own gun at me.

  This was far from my proudest moment. My ear was throbbing, trickling blood onto my chin, dripping down to merge with the dribbles of vomit already hanging there. I licked my sticky lips and fought back the awful taste.

  The cop holding my wallet said, “Driving license says you’re one Trevor Towers.” His voice was deep and mean. “What kind of a faggot name is that, Ed?”

  The other cop sniggered.

  He pulled the bills from my wallet before throwing it back to me empty. That was the last of my Jayne hunting budget. I struggled to find the strength to get up, but he just ground his heel against my face and said “Mr. Towers, you have been officially given your marching orders to leave Arkham. Courtesy of Big Boss.”

  They left the alley laughing, leaving me with the filth and the vomit. It didn’t really come as a surprise that Bi
g Boss had cops on his payroll; I never expected anything less. I just hadn’t thought he would rather send them to do his dirty work than deal with me head on. He obviously didn’t like getting his hands dirty.

  My night a failure, I climbed up, leaving the alley with an even worse stagger. Heading towards my hotel, covered in a sticky film of my own blood and vomit, I stalked around the glare of the streetlamps and dreamt of a change of clothes and a shower.

  I must have looked like quite a sight to the mostly respectable people I stumbled by on Main Street. I heard plenty of disgusted mutters and loud hoots from the motorists before I reached the relative peace of Boundary Street. Soon after I was staggering past the wide, looming form of Hangman’s Hill before turning left onto Crane Street.

  The Crane Street Hotel was a two-storied, gambrel-roofed affair that had probably been a lovely joint, once upon a time. The years hadn’t been kind to it, though: it suffered from both the rot from the docks and the morbidity of the nearby graveyard. But, it was discreet and cheap, just the place for a broke, beat-up bum like myself. As I walked up the cracked stone steps all I could think about was taking a shower and getting some sleep before I made a flit and worked out some other means of gaining cash.

  Girl hunting was an expensive business, and the only means that I had of earning cash, that of boxing or thuggery, didn’t seem like much of an option, all things considered.

  To add insult to injury, I found my room door hanging wide open. I walked in expecting to find the place ransacked, but instead found myself face to face with the guy I’d stabbed the night before.

  He stood there staring at me with his one good eye, looking only a little bit worse for wear. The eye I’d jabbed had been poorly stitched up, and whatever my butterfly knife had done to his brain caused the right-hand side of his face to sag as if it were putty. I raise my hands up, beaten and unarmed and said “You looking for more of the same, palooka?”

  The twice-dead man walked up to me, dragging his right foot behind him as he walked. Thrashing like a spastic, he lifted and pointed his pistol at my face. He slobbered and drooled, his good eye glazed over. “Boss said to finish the job.” Even in this sorry state, he had me dead to rights and he knew it.

  “You don’t look so hot right now.” I replied, edging back a little further. “Sure you don’t want to sleep it off?”

  “Look who’s talking,” he continued, sloping forwards as I stepped back, dancing our broken little windup dance. I thought of diving at him, kicking him straight in the chest, doing anything that would help me get the drop on him, but he’d pulled the trigger before I’d known it; there was a deafening boom and then... nothing. For a moment, I wondered where the hell the bullet had got to.

  I opened my eyes to see him sprawled on the floor, the back of his head turned into a mangled red mess.

  I turned to look and there she was: Jayne, in the flesh, looking as alive and as beautiful as the last time I’d seen her.

  I honestly thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

  She was dressed like midnight but was a hundred times more mysterious. Wearing a jet-black dress that hugged the gentle turn of her curves, gently sloping down to a stretch of tan stockings, ending in two shiny double strap shoes.

  Jayne stepped into the room like she owned the place; she examined the décor, shaking her black, Lauren Bacall waves in grim-faced distaste. When she finally turned to me with the same look she said:

  “Looking lively, aren’t we, Trevor?”

  I struggled to find the right words, but all I did was babble like a baby; like a goddess of lust, she glided closer, biting her bottom lip and said...

  “You need to give it up, Trev; go stalking for a more suitable mate.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “I love you Jayne, I need you.” I said.

  She frowned as she stepped around the dead punk. A thousand years of death and longing passed by the time she stood before me.

  I tried to think what I looked like to her: a filthy, mewling thing, with blood and vomit on my face and raggedy clothes, withering under her blue eyes and high cheek-boned face. Even in the light of that sickly ceiling lamp, she was just too perfect.

  Her pitch-black dress drank deep from the light that spilled off her glossy hair.

  “Our kinds shouldn’t mix, Trevor,” came her brutal reply.

  I babbled my incoherent begging mess, once again. It was all I could do; the bombshell of finally seeing her had me utterly shell-shocked. I soaked in her radiance like a starved sunflower. I hadn’t even noticed that she was still grasping the automatic she’d used to kill the punk.

  “Get out of town,” she said before slamming the gun against my already swollen ear.

  I sank into painful oblivion and for the first time in years, I didn’t dream of her.

  I wound my way through the thick fog and finally arrived at the gambrel-roofed building that I called home. The front door was unlocked and a dim ceiling lamp gave off just enough light for me to find my way up the stairs. I stumbled only a couple of times during my unsteady climb and felt my way toward my room. I fumbled for the key, eventually managing to place it in the keyhole and let myself inside.

  I was thirsty but didn’t relish a trip to the shared second-floor bathroom basin. Flopping onto the bed, I groaned and started to unbuckle my belt.

  Damn it, Riley, you need to take it easier with the booze.

  “Put a sock in it,” I muttered to the nagging voice inside my head.

  The Sandman was knocking on my door when I heard the gunshot.

  What the...

  For a drowsy half-second, I thought I was dreaming. But I’d been around enough guns and gunfire to know; there’s no mistaking that sound once you’ve heard it. I sat up in bed, fighting back my throbbing headache. I kicked at my shoes and scrambled to grab them in my drunken stupor. I finally managed to corral them and hurried to the door.

  The piece, Riley. Don’t forget the piece.

  I reached into the battered dresser, removed my .45 and stuck it in my belt. Opening the door slowly, I stuck my head outside and peered down the hall. A door was ajar and I did a double take when a well-stacked dame took her sweet time before she left the room. As soon as she started down the stairs, I rushed to the open door and peered inside.

  I choked back a yelp as I looked inside. A much-abused stiff—dead for days by the look of him—was sharing the floor with my old chum Trevor Towers.

  Who woulda thunk? You’re flopping at the same hotel!

  The big lug looked like he’d been put through the wringer, but he was breathing. The side of his face was bruised and battered. I didn’t know what to make of the corpse. Pushing the door shut, I found a piece of paper in my pocket and took a pencil from the nightstand. I jotted down a brief message:

  Towers,

  Lose the goddamn corpse and pull yourself together. I’m going after the broad.

  R.B.

  I found wilted flowers drooping over a cheap vase, half filled with green water. After placing the note on Towers’ chest, I tossed the dead weeds to the floor.

  “Bottoms up!”

  Laughing like a schoolkid, I poured the slimy liquid on Towers’ ugly mug and dashed out of the room.

  But where could I find the mystery woman?

  I ran down the hallway and hurried down the stairs and barreled through the hotel lounge, nearly knocking the screen door off its hinges as I went. Looking down Crane Street, I saw a figure disappearing into the fog so I made after it like a stumbling hayburner. The fog swirled around me as I stumbled into the spot where I’d seen the woman disappear. Going after a quick hunch, I headed right on Boundary Street, groping blindly in the fog until I saw a figure on the steep path leading to Hangman’s Hill.

  By now, I was sucking wind, just like the bad old boxing days. No wonder I never did make it as a contender. By the time I neared the top of the hill, I was completely out of breath, so I stopped to wipe my eyes and stared toward the Wooded Graveyard
below. Two dark figures loomed just beyond the gate. A woman—the broad I’d been after, had to be—and a big-six bastard of a man.

  “Hey, lovebirds!” I yelled, like a complete goof. “We need to talk!”

  The two stood silently as tendrils of fog enveloped them. Their forms shifted, becoming distorted and vague as shadows. Something large slid out from under the man’s coat, expanding as it went. It waved in the air like the trunk of some circus elephant. I wanted to yell again but thought better of it. Blinking the mist away from my eyes, I looked again but the figures had disappeared. I could have gone after them. All I had to do was step into the mist....

  And then what, Riley? You don’t even know what’s behind the curtain, do you?

  I stared at the empty space where the two figures had stood and shrugged. No, this was none of my business. Every single thing about Towers was beyond me, now. As I stumbled down Hangman’s Hill it also occurred to me that I wasn’t too keen on returning to the Crane Street hotel that night. Towers was going to fly right off the handle, as soon as he woke up from his stupor and that was one kind of grief I didn’t need.

  I slowly meandered back to Kearney’s office where I planned to spend the rest of the evening. It was a good thing that he was an unusually trusting soul—especially for a private dick—and I owned a key to the office.

  I made sure to avoid any cops. I’d rather settle for Kearney’s couch than a bunk bed in the drunk tank. Some of the local bulls were okay but Kearney had warned me to keep an eye out for the bad apples. Half soaked from the fog, I made it to the office and let myself in. My head was pounding and my gut was sour but I knew I was way better off than Towers. This thought consoled me as I kicked back in Kearney’s spare chair, removed my shoes and parked my size twelves on top of his desk. I would talk to Towers in the morning when both of us would be good and rested. I lit a gasper. I closed my eyes and dreamed.

  This time, I didn’t dream of ‘Big Bertha’; instead, I dreamt of a waitress I knew back in St. Paul. We were just about to get into the horizontal hop, when some bastard started working on my skull with a jackhammer.