I made a point of showing my hands and waited patiently for whatever fresh hell was coming down the pike. The big man in front of me grinned and said, “That was some performance you put on back at The Kettle. You shouldn’t have punched a little fellow like Nate. Yeah, some performance.”
I managed to cough up a loogie and spit it within an inch of his brogan.
“Then you’ll just love my next one,” I bluffed.
“Yeah?” he challenged, his voice dripping with menace.
“Yeah,” I answered. “In about thirty seconds I’ll be pulling my size twelve shoe out of your ass.”
The thug cursed and raised the blade. About that time I heard something drop behind me like a sack of potatoes and a big ham of a hand grasped my shoulder and pushed me to the side. “It’s a hell of a night to be out walking,” said the unexpected voice of my partner, the inimitable Trevor Towers.
Tower’s was pointing a .45 still dripping blood from where it had cracked the skull of the second hood whom I had heard but not seen
The blade-wielding tough stopped in his tracks seemingly flummoxed by the unexpected turn of events. I admit—not proudly, mind you—that I took advantage of the fellow’s momentary distraction to step forward and kick him in the balls.
Towers shook his head and smiled. “Classy move, Barnes.”
“And you, pal of mine, have impeccable timing,” I answered.
“Be glad my date had a headache,” said Towers. “Though I would like to have seen how you planned on getting out of this.”
“A good magician never reveals his secrets.”
“You heading for the office?” Towers asked.
“Yeah,” I answered. “You want to give me a lift?”
“We took Kate’s heap tonight,” he replied. “I’m on foot as well.”
Laughing, I said, “I don’t guess the exercise will kill either one of us.”
Barnes slammed the receiver down, the phone ringing shrilly as it settled into its cradle. I sat quietly, staring towards his scowling face while waiting him to speak. Well, his mouth opened to spout cuss-words that probably sent a few nearby saints tossing in their graves, before throwing me a glare that would’ve sent most folks blood cold. I’m a cold-blooded bastard anyway—just ask my bookie—so I took the glare with aplomb.
“You kiss my mother with that mouth?” I asked, giving him my best, most cheerful ‘how ya doing pal,’ grin.
Barnes growled. Grabbing the telephone up in both shaking hands, he threw it against the wall. It rang sharply as it bounced, complaining again as it landed on our frayed green carpet.
As Barnes sat glaring towards it, I said, “I’m not picking that up,” followed by, “Feel better now?”
He looked at me and that evil expression cracked just a little. Sighing, giving me a slight smile, he slumped back into his seat.
“The fight we’ve got Friday... it’s true that Logan owns the guy. The punk’s also grown in stature since we last dealt with him. He’s got mob boss aspirations to boot.”
Dealt? Yeah, you might say that, Barnes flushing the little shit’s head down a toilet—where it belongs, I might add. He performed this little act after witnessing Logan getting a little too rough with a girl down at Annie’s, a bar we frequented.
I sat forward with interest.
“So the Whately guy’s his... who’da thunk it.”
Noah “Iron Man” Whately was one big, ugly boxer our guy Eddie had just fought his way up to. And some cheap scumbag like Logan thought we would throw it? No wonder my partner felt so pissed. Me, I was taking it easier because I wasn’t the one he’d approached with this ridiculous threat.
“Two ideas,” I said, “Let’s see what you think of them.” Barnes leaned forward, clenching both hands under his chin. “One, we go find ‘Boss’ Logan and make him wish he’d stayed in that toilet you shoved him down.” Barnes chortled; it was good to hear. “Or two, we grab this Whately fella, tie the bastard up, and send him off on a boat trip far, far away.”
Barnes’ hands slapped against the desk. “I like it, pal, I like it!” he said, his face beaming like a kid’s on Christmas Day.
“So which one’s it to be?” I asked, thinking I already knew the answer.
“Both,” Barnes replied, and that happy smile became something sinister.
“Sir,” I replied, standing from my seat, “you’re a pleasure to work with.”
Before leaving the office, Barnes retrieved the phone, hoping it’d forgive him the roughhousing. It did, so he called up Eddie to make sure everything was okay. Good kid that he was, Eddie was already in bed, dreaming innocent, big slugger dreams, no doubt. So, not wanting to upset the applecart, Barnes told his mom we’d see him in the morning.
A lovely lady was our Ma McCoy, a widower who’d single-handedly brought up Eddie and his three sisters after her husband failed to return from the war. Always greeting us with a friendly smile, Eddie’s mom would fill us with cheer and freshly baked pastries. It broke my heart to see how poor they lived, but Eddie’s successes were helping fix that, fight by fight.
We loved her, and our protégé Eddie, which is why Barnes felt so mad and why I was willing to do anything possible to set things right that very night. Sometimes though, having the will isn’t always enough.
Once outside the office, me and Barnes went our separate ways. Settling who’d do what hadn’t proven difficult: it was plain as day that the chip on Barnes’ shoulder was itching the merry hell out of him. This meant he’d be the one giving Boss Logan a little visit. Me, I was off to find the Whately fella to see if we could remove him without violence. I wasn’t holding my hopes up, and that suited me fine.
We left the office and again emerged into the foggy Arkham night. Being a glutton for trouble, I looked forward to having a little not-so-friendly chat with the overreaching scum known as Boss Logan. We had sort of a history and it wasn’t the kind that made the bastard want to send me a greeting card each Christmas. Shoving a guy’s head in the toilet is not the recommended way of winning friends though it can definitely influence people.
The thought of that punk having the nerve to insist that Eddie McCoy throw a fight really had me steamed. Eddie was a good kid and had worked like hell to reach the point where he was in line to earn some decent dough, provided he kept on winning his fights. I planned on seeing his winning streak continue at least until someone beat him fair and square.
As for the so-called ‘Boss’ Logan, men of that type are like roaches. It seems like every time you stomp one under your shoe than two more crawl out of the woodwork. Me and my partner had been doing our best to exterminate such pests in Arkham for the better part of a year, which is roughly when our partnership began. It’s a never-ending struggle and one that can be damned depressing at times. Still, it helps me sleep good at night. Most of the time.
After Towers and I separated I worked up a sweat walking through the thick fog and became chilled in the damp night. Welcoming the sight of the sign proclaiming Annie’s, I approached the familiar establishment and quickly spied one of Logan’s men loitering at the front of a nearby alley that ran alongside my destination and the building next door. Fortunately he had his back turned to the street and hadn’t spotted me yet.
I grinned, impressed that Logan was sharp enough to have someone posted to alert him of the shit-storm heading his way. Maybe he had gotten smarter over the years. I veered away from the club’s entrance and took a parallel alley to the rear of Annie’s and peered around the back of the building. The coast was clear so I made my way through the blanket of fog until reaching the other side of the building. Stopping at the alley, I cautiously looked toward the street and could just make out the shape of Logan’s sentry. With any luck I could ambush him from behind and send him to dreamland before he wised up to my presence.
I took a deep breath and moved cat-like through the swirling mist. Having almost reached my target, I managed to stumble into an ash can and lose my balance.
Okay, by cat-like I was referring to how a drunken tabby might fare in a room full of bowling balls.
Logan’s man turned in surprise and yelled, “Who da hell’s there!”
I barreled toward him—impressed by my quickness—and hit him with a shoulder block that sent him reeling into the brick wall. I caught him on the rebound with a right cross to the jaw and watched him sag to the floor. Taking a strand of clothesline from my coat pocket, I quickly hog-tied the lug and left him dreaming.
A metal staircase beside Annie’s led to the second story where Logan and a couple of fly-by-night operators had established temporary offices. I made my way up the stairs and entered a door opening onto a wide, dimly lit hall. The floor was covered in worn, puke-green carpeting and made me wonder why I’d bothered to wipe my feet upon entering. Just good manners, I guess.
Logan’s office was located at the end of the hall on the right. I checked the artillery in my coat pocket and smiled at its comforting presence. I hadn’t a clue as to how many of Logan’s thugs would be with him but didn’t plan on taking unnecessary chances. I would lay it all out for the bastard and leave no room for doubt concerning our position in the matter of the upcoming prize fight.
Harsh light spilled into the hallway from Logan’s office and I could hear him kibitzing with someone on the phone as I approached the open door. Logan was alone—his keister parked behind a big oak desk—and I was frankly surprised when he looked up and smiled as I filled the door frame with my not insubstantial bulk.
“Later,” he told the party on the line.
“Barnes,” he said shaking his head, “I wondered how long it would take you to find your way here.”
“No trouble at all,” I replied. “I got directions from some punk in the alley. I would’ve brought the Good Samaritan along but he’s tied up at the moment.”
“You think you’re real cute, don’t you Barnes?”
“No,” I answered. “What I think is that you’re going to need more muscle... especially if you don’t deep six this idea you’ve got about Eddie McCoy taking a dive.”
Logan reached into his shirt pocket and fished out a pack of smokes. He lit one, inhaled and blew out a smoke ring. I glanced over my shoulder and began to be wary. The piece of crap in front of me was a certified coward and there was no way he would be trying to get my goat unless he had a contingency plan to save his ass.
“If this is the part where you threaten to mop up the floor with me then I think you’d best reconsider,” he said.
“And why would I want to do that?” I asked, playing along with him for the time being. Glancing over my shoulder, I said, “I don’t see any sign of the cavalry.”
“Don’t need them,” he replied.
“That’s right,” I said. “It’s an ambulance that you’re going to need.”
My fists were clenched tightly and I was about a second away from deconstructing Logan when the phone rang. I paused as he grinned and said, “Saved by the bell.”
He picked up the receiver and handed it across the desk to me.
“Barnes,” said a woman’s sultry voice. “I have someone here who’d like to speak to you.”
Glaring at Logan I started to describe what I planned to do to him but was interrupted by a child’s voice on the line. The child was crying but I could tell that the voice belonged to a little girl. She was sobbing the entire time but I could still make out the words with only a little trouble. The child was pleading with me to come get her and take her home to see her Ma, sisters and brother Eddie. I was trying to reassure her that everything was going to be okay when I heard the sound of an open hand striking flesh, followed by a high-pitched wail and the sound of the receiver being slammed down.
It took all of my will power to hang up the phone and release my grip on the .45 in my coat pocket. I glared at the grinning thug and whispered, “You’re dead.”
Turning away from Logan, I walked out the door. My entire body trembled with rage as his gloating laughter followed me down the hall and into the night. I kept telling myself it could be a ruse but in my heart I knew the truth. I had to find Towers and tell him what had happened.
Whately wasn’t hard to find. After drinking a quick malt in a bar the boxing fraternity used, I was informed by a guy with barely a tooth to his name that Whately was training like the devil over at Aldo Marin’s gym, across the river. Well, no one said being a snoop didn’t demand a little legwork, and this being personal, I walked that extra mile.
That mile took me across the river and left at River Street, then past the docks before heading towards French Hill. Soon I reached the line of box-shaped, decrepit buildings at its base.
Aldo’s Gym, the second building along, had a sign proclaiming its owner and function above a wide-open doorway. Walking towards this, the sounds of heated combat reached my ears, familiar from a hundred bouts of my own. A few moments later I stepped inside the gym’s bright interior.
Aldo’s Gym—been there before, probably be there again—but as I glanced around I saw nothing of the man himself. Whitewashed walls aplenty, lots of dumbbells and punching bags, but no sign of the big, grinning black man with the impressive gold dentistry in his maw.
Directly before me were the gym’s two rings. The one to the left stood empty but its partner bore the source of the noise, two guys going at it there sparring. Well, not exactly sparring. One stood dressed in protective gear whilst the other guy pounded the living shit outta him.
A couple of fellas stood watching this one-sided battle, the one to the left a little guy in a cap. His jacket lay hung under his arm, a pair of bright red braces holding the pants up against his skinny ass. The other, a big ape in a suit, looked like he’d probably been through a couple of bouts himself.
“Attaboy!” ‘Braces’ hollered as Whately knocked his smaller opponent to the canvas. Now that the meat pounding was over my presence was finally noticed, all heads turning to me.
Oh yeah, the guy doing the punching was Whately, a wild-haired giant of a man, six foot five in height and not far from that in girth. A thick red beard matched the shock on his head, matted and dirty like the rest of him. His skin looked as pale as death in the overhead lights, his thick ginger eyebrows furrowed upon a sloping brow. Panting from the fight, he stood shining with sweat.
I smiled, tipping my hat while musing over how healthier he’d look with a tan. Did hillbillies have passports? I didn’t think so, and not that he’s need one. Then I turned my gaze to the stooges beneath the ring.
Braces and the ape glared daggers as I paused before them. The other guy, Whately’s partner—he was out for the count despite his protective headgear.
Braces had a pale, scrunched-up pip of a face, his partner one both wide and flabby, just like the hands he’d begun clenching beneath the sleeves of his too-tight suit.
His ears were cauliflowered, his nose a mashed-up relic above a pair of saliva-slicked lips. Compared to him, Whately was a pretty boy.
I didn’t like the way his beady eyes glared at me, not one bit. Then he opened his mouth, making me like him even less.
“Take a hike, bozo.” His voice phlegmy, the ape grinned sourly, revealing a mouth of chipped yellow teeth. Raising his fat paw he indicated the door behind me.
I gave him a generous smile, was about to reply when the squirt interrupted me. “You heard the man, peanut, now scram!”
Peanut? Braces’ voice was thin and reedy, me wanting to snap his skinny little neck for being so rude as to interrupt a gentleman at his words.
I took it however, ignoring Braces completely as I addressed the ape. “I’ve come to see your man, I have a business proposition that involves some travel.”
In way of reply, Whately issued an enthusiastic ‘Hurr.’
I briefly wondered whether he’d even learned to speak.
The ape smiled his wet nicotine smile, breathing on me foully. “That kinda thing goes through the Boss, sweetheart.”
Peanut? Sweetheart?
These guys sorely needed better material.
Folding my arms I said, “It’s a one-time only offer, and I need to speak to Mister Whately in person.” Whately seemed to like being called ‘Mister,’ for he sent another happy grunt my way.
“Realllllllly,” Braces said, my urge to smash his face growing. Then a groan appeared from the canvas behind Whately, meaning his playmate was about ready for another pounding.
The ape nudged his companion and said, “Go help Frankie out.”
“But, but...” Braces said, looking from me to his pal in panic, but the ape hissed loudly, Braces sending me a dour look before heading to the ring.
The ape grinned before saying, “Okay, pal, just give us five and he’ll see you out back.”
Braces, up in the ring helping Frankie to his feet, snorted and laughed.
I ignored this and looked to Whately. Still smiling, slivers of drool fell to his matted beard. No evil intent there, just the distinct, moronic friendliness of a damaged mind.
I found myself hating Boss Logan even more now. Returning Whately’s smile I said to the ape, “Five minutes, okay,” the ape grinning like I had ‘sucker’ painted across my forehead in bright red letters. I nodded and headed left, stepping between the rings towards the gym’s back entrance. On the way, I removed a pack of smokes from my inside pocket. While inside my jacket, my fingers unclipped the holster on my .45.
Eyes glared into me as I headed towards the rear door. Searching through my jacket I found a box of matches, lighting my smoke as I stepped into the night. I heard Braces snickering as the door slid shut behind me.
Well, Towers’ old momma didn’t bring up a sucker, which is why I stood behind the gym just waiting for trouble.
With the door a few yards to my right, I stood there looking as casual as possible, my hands stuffed deep inside my pockets. My trigger finger was itching, my hands, balled into fists, clenching back and forth beneath the fabric of my jacket. To my left lay an old stone wall, tall and gray in the twilight but black where coated in moss. The smell of fresh nature filtered across the wall, soured by the nicotine pouring from my nearly exhausted smoke.
Arkham Nights Page 21