City of Woe

by Christopher Ryan

  Visit hospital

  Player’s Lounge, Beaver and Broad

  Mallory’s knees nearly buckled. He’d been to the hospital? When? He lifted the Glock, chambered a round, headed inside.

  But the delivery entrance was completely engulfed, forcing him back up the alley. He ran past approaching firefighters, jumping over hoses they dragged, toward the front once more. As he exited the alley, a thin, pale junkie approached Mallory. The addict’s hair was greasy, dark circles underscored the need in his bloodshot, yellowing eyes. The hand that held a soiled business envelope shook uncontrollably. “You Detective Mallory?”

  Mallory threw him against a closed store’s metal gates with a thunderous crash. “Who sent you? Who?”

  “Fifty dollah sent me, man.” The junkie held up half a 50 dollar bill. “And the other half after hooking you up with this here.” He held up the envelope.

  Mallory slammed him again. “Where did you get this?”

  “Stop assaulting me, man! I gots mah rights.” Mallory raised his fist, the junkie changed his tune. “Chill! Chill! He say you open it, there be a note tellin’ where to gets mah other half. He say it was all coded up so only you would know.” He offered the envelope, cocky now. “So open up, yo, I gots bizness to take care of.”

  Mallory took the greasy little package, scanning the street for any sign of someone watching. Slipping a pinky inside, he slit the top of the envelope. Out slid one index card and the rest of the fifty. The junkie reached for the money. Mallory pushed him back against the gate. “That’s evidence.”

  The junkie swung at the detective’s head, weak and slow. Mallory ducked it, straightened up, kicked the greedy weasel right in the groin. He fell to the street and balled up like a strung out fetus.

  A uniform ran up. Mallory flashed his badge. “Arrest him: assaulting an officer and interfering with a police investigation.”

  Gunner, Danvers, Ross and Father Carry all rushed to Mallory as he read the card. Mallory held it up for them. The card bore a Roman numeral:

  IX

  Mallory looked at the others, flipped it over. One word was scrawled there:

  Inside.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Mallory charged the entrance, his hand tensing around the Glock. Gunner followed flanking to the right, his gun at his side. Danvers positioned Ross and Father Carry behind a car. “Stay here,” he ordered. As he ran to join the others, the Trinity Church bell began to ring. The priest and the shaman waited all of five seconds before following.

  The front entrance was destroyed, blackened by fire, smoke pouring out from the top of the broken doors, glass glittering on the ground. As the detectives approached, firefighters preparing to hose it down tried to wave them off. “You can’t go in there!” All three flashed their badges, kept moving.

  They avoided the flames, negotiated the debris until they reached the main performance area. Once it was tacky chrome and mirrors, with plush chairs and linen covered tables around several small stages. Now the chrome was charred, many of the clothed tables and once-polished chairs were burning, smoke obscured the room, shattered mirrors reflecting the chaos. Puddles that stank of gasoline were everywhere; it was a wonder the whole place hadn’t gone up yet.

  By a long bar, a figure stood silhouetted against fire and neon, writing furiously on an index card. He finished with a flourish, lifted his head, gave the briefest hint of a laugh. Dropping the pen and card dismissively as if that ruse was no longer necessary, he raised his hands, palms up and extended in welcome, bowed slightly.

  This shadow — male, short, medium build, loose clothing — was nothing exceptional; no horns, no tail, none of that crap.

  Outside, the church bell tolled: One.

  Their suspect stepped to the right, toward the bar and a line of shadowed bottles. As he moved, flames illuminated his features.

  Outside, the church bell tolled: Two.

  Raising his head, giving that one chin nod, he leaned into the firelight.

  Outside, the church bell tolled: Three.

  It was him: the “Dante” at Westchester Square; the “veteran cop” at the hotel crime scene; the very ordinary Paul Farrington. He smiled, then faded back into the shadows. From that blackness, shots rang out.

  Danvers crumpled to the ground at Mallory’s left, blood pouring out of his neck, his face going pale quickly.

  Gunner spun around to Mallory’s right, fell to the floor, his gun skittering away, lost in the smoke. Blood sprayed up from his shoulder. “MotherFucker!” Gunner roared, slapping his left hand down on the wound to slow the bleeding.

  “Gunner!”

  Farrington stood behind the bar, laughing as he pointed his gun. Mallory’s mind raced: Where did he get the gun? How could he be so quick? Why didn’t he shoot me?

  Mallory rushed to help his partner. Gunner was clear-eyed and furious. “One on either side of you….” When his partner tried to check his wound, Gunner waved him off. “Forget this, go nail that bastard, Mal, now!”

  Mallory bent over Danvers—

  Fire exploded to his left, flames taking that entire side of the room, engulfing the door, making the room glow red, heat rising.

  Gunner yelled, “Lieu’s gonna be pissed you get wounded, too. Get this fucker!”

  Molotov cocktails like he used at the hotel — Farrington was blocking all other possible exits, then he would flee out the back door behind the bar, throwing one last bottle bomb to obstruct that exit too. Trap them as his final victims. “It’s no use, Farrington, the place is surrounded. We’ve got you,” he yelled.

  “No, detective, I have you,” Farrington laughed, tossing another in the opposite direction. The fires on that side of the room leapt up, out of control.

  Mallory sucked in hot air. Movement in the shadowy space to his right drew the detective’s attention. Some kind of small room, with figures there, rising. Mallory swung his gun toward them, aiming: lining up the sights, targeting dead center on—

  Gina.

  He froze, uncomprehending, as his wife’s tear-filled eyes locked on his, then she looked down, hugging the kids—

  The kids!

  She pulled them back from the rising flames. But there wasn’t any place for her to go. And the flames were growing.

  Farrington aimed his gun at them. “Drop your weapon, detective. Or I shoot. You’re not fast enough to stop me.”

  Mallory dropped his Glock.

  His family stood uncomfortably close to a large puddle of gas. Both the boys were wide-eyed with fear. Gina was shaking.

  Kill this bastard right now.

  Farrington smiled proudly. “See? You’re surrounded.”

  “This is between you and me, not them.”

  He laughed. “This is about us, Detective, every single horrible one of us. Isn’t that why you have someone lurking in the shadows behind you?”

  “Because you and I also have business to finish, demon.” Father Carry stepped into the flickering light of the burning walls, holding a crucifix in one hand, a large open book in the other. He read from it now. “Eternal God, Our Father, let not the enemy prevail against us. Let not the son of iniquity have the power to harm us. For our faith is in you God—”

  Farrington shuddered, groaned, then pointed his gun at Max. “Silence the priest or I shoot the little one first.”

  Father Carry went silent but continued mouthing the prayers.

  Farrington pulled one of the Molotov cocktails towards him. “You see, Detective? He knows who I am. Has for a very long time.” A smile crossed his face, turning its doughy features maliciously confident. “He believes in me. Who do you believe in?”

  Mallory blanched. But his mind started flashing on his answers.

  Farrington flicked the lighter on, off, on off, waving it close to the cloth fuse. “Come on, Detective, tell us what you believe in.”

  “I believe you can’t win.”

  The figure before him laughed, lit the bottle, threw it at Mallory. “Can�
�t win? Look around. Religious leaders fondle children—”

  You sleeping, Dad?

  Mallory stepped forward, slapped the flaming bomb across the room, away from his family, adding to the inferno already raging to his left.

  Wake up! You’re missing everything!

  Farrington lit the next. “—Politicians forsake truth for victory. Business giants trample nature for profit. The media spreads fear of everything all the time.” Again Farrington threw it.

  Bacon and pink lemonade.

  Mallory caught this one, hurled it right back. Farrington ducked. The bar behind him exploded. Mallory took three quick steps forward. Behind him, by the front entrance, a beam collapsed.

  Gina’s big brown eyes.

  Mallory kept coming, arms extended forward, fingers waving back to himself, offering Farrington a better, closer target than Gina and the boys.

  Farrington lit another bottle, face glowing. “Commercials make you all hungry for food, sex, beauty, more, more, more, until none of you can feel confident, happy, satisfied.”

  Mallory stepped toward the bottle, head lowered, his own eyes burning brightly from under his brow, focused on this thing threatening his family.

  “Can’t win?” Farrington caressed the bomb, letting the fuse burn down. This would be the one. He was going to light Mallory up in front of Gina and the kids. “My dear friend, I already have.”

  You have to play what’s there, Dad.

  Mallory glanced to his right. “Jesus Christ, please!” He stumbled closer, hands slapping together in supplication.

  Farrington raised his homemade hell, aiming at the detective only two feet from him now. “Is that who you finally believe in? Jesus Christ?”

  The Who’s “Love reign over me.”

  Mallory glanced from Farrington to Gina and the kids. Suddenly, from the shadows of the doorway between them, a burst of white, billowing, foaming chemical spray cleared a path from his family to the rear exit. Ross stepped out, blasting foam right at the madman. The little man ducked behind the bar. Ross threw the now empty fire extinguisher right at Farrington. He came up firing. The extinguisher crashed into his gun hand, sending the bullets wide, the gun flying.

  Ross scooped up Kieran in one arm, Max in the other, then led Gina back into the shadows beyond the doorway.

  Mallory closed in on Farrington quickly, his fist cocked.

  Farrington raised his last firebomb. “Now you’ll see the real me. For I am—”

  Mallory punched Farrington right in the throat. “Just another loser.”

  Farrington slammed back onto the flaming bar, gasping, choking, the burning bottle somehow still raised, fuse almost gone. He hammered it down toward the detective’s head.

  A shot rang out, from behind and to Mallory’s right.

  The bottle exploded onto Farrington, flames enveloping his head, chest, arms. Mallory rolled away from the fireball, stunned as Farrington, engulfed now, fell back onto the bar, revealing the wall behind, where the shattered, scorched mirrors reflected distorted images: Farrington burning, Mallory stumbling to his feet before a rising shadow, slithering toward him through the gathering darkness.

  “The demon.”

  Let him burn!

  Mallory could hear the voice, at least he thought he could. Everything was so disjointed now.

  Let him burn! You want this! You earned it!

  He found himself wanting to agree, starting to as that slithering black smoke gathered around him, thinking of standing there and watching this bastard burn. But then his eyes were drawn away. And there in the scorched mirror, Mallory saw his father.

  For the briefest of moments, in one shattered piece of mirror blurred by smoke and flames, tilted just like their family portrait, his father stood, giving him that one nod of the chin.

  You take care… of that Gina. … She’s something special.

  Kiss my bananas for me.

  Now go… do The Job.

  Mallory grabbed a table cloth, threw it over Farrington, rolled him off the bar, slammed him to the floor. He grabbed another table cloth, used it to douse the rest of the flames, scorching his hands, not caring.

  “What was that?” Farrington screamed, writhing under him now, rage gone, confused now, barely recognizable as the animal Mallory had hunted. “What was That?”

  Mallory fought for breath now. “You … have the right … to remain …. silent…. Anything you say… can … and will … be used against you …”

  He saw Farrington pass out … His own attention wandering through a graying haze … Gunner backing away from approaching flames, clutching his gun, shoulder bleeding freely … Father Carry kneeling in the haze over Danvers … firefighters rushing in through the darkening smoke … then … blackness.

  SIXTY

  The wake was packed. Cop buddies. Army buddies. A guy who went to school with Pop at Cardinal Hayes in the early 40s. Family from everywhere. A true Irish wake. Mallory fought with the doctors who said he couldn’t go, then conceded the point, waited until they left, dressed, walked out. Gunner picked him up, for which Gina promised to never speak to him again.

  After the first night, the brothers and sisters toasted Pop at a tavern up the block.

  “To the Man,” Patty Junior said.

  As they drank, that night’s band broke into “The Unicorn”. Every sibling swore every other sibling had paid them to do it. Later, the band said they played the song rarely but “just felt like playing it tonight.”

  Apparently, Pop appreciated the toast.

  At the funeral, Mallory’s cousin Mike played bag pipes across the street from the church. The slow Celtic dirge seeped right into Mallory’s heart. It affected Kieran too. He pulled at Mallory’s jacket. “Why is he playing that, Dad?”

  “Two reasons: one, it sets the mood, the feeling for the service we’re about to have, and two, Pop-Pop loved bagpipes, so cousin Mike is honoring him.”

  The squad attended, except the Lieu, who was conscious but still in intensive care. Reporters were on hand, but were kept at bay by uniforms. There seemed to be some questions about the results of the investigation, including some whispers about police brutality at the strip joint, and a growing rumor suggesting Farrington had escaped. All of it seemed so remote, so unimportant now as they stood outside the church while the hearse was opened and NYPD officers in dress blues moved the casket onto a rolling cart.

  Kieran tugged at Mallory’s sleeve again. “Why are they doing that?”

  “They are bringing Pop-pop into the service so we can pray for him.”

  “But why are the policemen all dressed up?”

  Mallory’s eyes filled up. “Because he earned it.”

  Crisp blue uniforms and sharp white gloves unfolded an American flag before draping it over the modest casket. Then they hoisted Pop’s casket onto their shoulders and carried him into the church. Kieran tugged one more time. “Why did they put the flag on it?”

  “Because you grandfather was a hero.”

  “A super-hero?”

  “Yeah, the kind they don’t make anymore.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  With significant parts of his neck and his right arm bandaged, Paul Farrington walked through Disney World with long sleeves and his collar up. Madge and Bella were on the ride Mission to Mars, but Farrington begged off, suggesting the jostling during the ride would irritate the burns he received “when the boiler blew at work.”

  As he waited stiffly by a railing, a tourist adjacent to him took photos of the famous amusement park’s immaculate grounds. “Not interested in meeting martians?”

  Farrington smiled, as much as he was able. Even that slight grimace was an improvement. “Space travel? No.”

  Brisbane, in outlandishly loud tourist gear, smiled behind his ever clicking camera. “Well, the diction’s improving. That is a good sign.”

  Farrington hadn’t even been able to speak when Brisbane showed up at the heavily guarded hospital as part of a “specialist’
s team” with paperwork to transport him to the Burn Center at New York Presbyterian Hospital for emergency treatment. The rest was smooth for the mad genius, though every bump on the gurney had been agony and Farrington was sure the ambulance ride was going to kill him. He had no idea what kind of medicines and solvents Brisbane was using, but now he could walk, talk a bit through clenched teeth, and even dress himself.

  Brisbane chuckled, lowering the camera into the bag he carried on his shoulder. His hand re-emerged holding a tiny needle. A glance and he was ready. He dropped his arm nonchalantly. The needle pierced Farrington’s thigh, pain reliever flowing smoothly into his system.

  Farrington sighed, comfort spreading through him like the warmth of exceptional Scotch. “Am I going to have to kick addiction when I’ve healed?”

  “Not from this,” Brisbane murmured. “However, those ideas you’re addicted to are another matter altogether.”

  His loyal friend disagreed with Farrington’s plan to pay back the thing that caught him with his guard down. “Not addicted, sure. You didn’t get hijacked.”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  Farrington had sworn the same oath through every painful moment since he regained control of himself, on fire and being rolled by that detective. He swore it again now. “Once I’m back in fighting form, there will be Hell to pay.”

  “That pun never gets old. But hopes springs eternal that you will consider the possibility of trauma-induced delusion.”

  “I. Told. You.—”

  Brisbane knew pressing the issue would lead to trouble. He wandered away. “I will see you around six for fresh bandages and another dose, yes?”

  Farrington fumed alone by the railing. He hadn’t imagined what happened to him. That demon was real. It went against every thought he ever had in his career. Against his concept of reality. It pushed him to doubt his own mind, though he’d never admit it to Brisbane. Farrington never let any opponent get the better of him, ever. Not as a Marine. Not as Black Ops. Not as a mercenary. Not as a fixer. Never.

  But this thing had taken him, mind, body, and soul. Had completely subjugated the warrior. Had made Farrington its bitch. Farrington’s shame was complete.